A Marriage of Necessity
by UnskilledGamer92
Summary: What if Sansa and Tyrion had tried to make their marriage work? Can people from such different worlds learn to love each other? Character ages closer to the books than the show. AU from mid-season-3 on.
1. So Cold

**A/N: This is a Tyrion/Sansa story. It's AU. Canon up until the start of the story is based mostly on the show, although character ages are closer to book ages. Warnings include: Language, Violence, Sex, Sex with a minor (based on who the characters are), spanking, self harm, and character deaths. Maybe some others - I don't really censor myself when I write. Some characters who die on the show may not die in the ff, and some who do not die in the show may die in the ff. The only characters I'm promising will make it through the whole thing are Sansa and Tyrion.**

 **Reviews make my soul soar :)**

 **So Cold - Ben Cocks**

 _Oh, you can't hear me cry_

 _see my dreams all die_

 _from where you're standing on your own._

 _It's so quiet here_

 _and I feel so cold._

 _This house no longer feels like home._

November 5, 299

Sansa stared at her reflection, touching her fingertips against the dull cloth that had been selected for her. "From what I can tell, the dressmakers in Highgarden will be far superior to the ones in King's Landing. They'd never make me anything as dull as this for my wedding."

Shae gently began to unwind the fabric from Sansa's waist.

"Loras likes green and gold brocade," Sansa told her.

"I'm sure he does."

Sansa smiled. She was going to be beautiful at her wedding. Every girl dreamed about her wedding. She was only sorry that her father couldn't walk her down the aisle. The thought gave her pause, and she said, "Will they let me invite my family to the wedding?"

"They haven't asked my opinion," Shae said.

"But do you think they will?" Sansa pressed.

Shae's eyes flicked briefly to Sansa's face. "No."

Sansa sighed. It was one more reminder of the war. It had been a stupid thought. Joffrey would probably beat her if she asked and remind her again that her family were all traitors.

Shae pulled Sansa's dress off of her shoulders, leaving her standing in her corset.

The door to her chambers opened, and a servant popped her head in. "Lady Sansa, Lord Tyrion to see you. Should I...?"

Tyrion stepped around the servant before she could finish her sentence. His eyes dropped to the ground when he saw her state of dress. "I beg your pardon, my lady."

Shae hastily pulled the dress back up around Sansa's shoulders, hiding her undress.

"Good afternoon, Lord Tyrion," Sansa said. "I was just trying on a gown for Joffrey's wedding."

Tyrion kept his eyes averted for a moment longer, and then turned to her, nodding. "Yes. It should be quite the wedding." His hand tugged on the hem of his shirt. "I need to speak with you, Lady Sansa."

"Of course." Sansa held her dress closed with her hands, looking at him uncertainly. Of the Lannisters, Tyrion had treated her the most kindly thus far, but he was hardly the sort to pay her social visits.

Tyrion swallowed. "Alone, if I may."

Shae's eyes flashed. "Why do you need to speak with her alone?"

"Shae!" Sansa hissed. She turned back to Tyrion, an apologetic look in her eyes. "Please excuse her, Lord Tyrion, she's not from here. But I trust her, even though she tells me not to."

Tyrion frowned. "Sometimes we think we want to hear something, and it's only afterwards, when it's too late, that we realize we wished we'd heard it under entirely different circumstances."

Sansa shook her head, unsure what to make of him. "It's all right, really."

Tyrion frowned at her for a moment, and then he nodded. He stepped further into her chambers, closing the door behind himself, and then he stared at her for a long moment. "How to begin..."

Sansa frowned. Tyrion usually seemed quite sure of himself. She wasn't used to seeing him struggling to find words.

"This..." Tyrion's eyes went to the ceiling. "This is awkward."

Sansa eyed him uncertainly.

"My father has..." Tyrion looked at his feet. "That is... Lady Sansa, you and I are to be wed."

"What?" Sansa stared at him. The time she had spent at King's Landing learning to play at politeness slipped away from her. "No. I'm to be wed to Sir Loras. Lady Margaery said-"

"Lady Margaery will be the queen," Tyrion said. "But the king and the hand have both determined that you and I will get married, and they... they have the power."

"But why?" Sansa pressed. "I mean, you and me. You're a..."

"Careful, Lady," Tyrion said quietly. "I understand your upset-believe me. I fought my father on this. But insulting me isn't going to make the situation any easier to stomach."

Sansa wrapped her arms tightly around her waist and pressed her lips together. He was right, though it didn't make it any easier to think of spending her remaining days with... _that_.

"I'm sorry," Tyrion said honestly.

"Are you?" Shae snapped, saying the words Sansa was holding back. "It's not exactly a step down for you."

Sansa knew that she should hold Shae in line, but in that moment she couldn't bring herself to say anything.

Tyrion coughed. "I assure you, I had no more say in this marriage than Lady Sansa. Nor would I choose to wed one so young were the choice mine to make."

"They can't force you to marry," Sansa said. "They can force me-I'm their prisoner-but you're free. You could do whatever you wanted."

"You're fooling yourself if you think anyone in the lion den is truly free," Tyrion said. "In point of fact, _you_ do have a choice. If you flat-out refuse to marry me, you can choose to marry Lancel instead."

" _Lancel_?" Sansa shook her head. She didn't want to marry Lancel. She wanted to marry Loras.

"It's one or the other," Tyrion said. "My father would prefer you marry me, and I can promise you I won't hurt you. But I can understand if you'd prefer to take your chances with Lancel. He's... closer to your age."

"And height," Shae muttered.

"Shae!" Sansa chided, fearing for the well-being of her servant. "Apologize to Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion held a hand out. "No need, Lady Sansa. She's right. He is closer to your height as well."

Sansa tugged on her dress. She hardly knew Lancel, but the few times she had interacted with him he seemed like a skittish pushover. Certainly he'd offer her no protection, nor did she think she could learn to love someone as weak-willed as him. She didn't think she could learn to love Tyrion, either, but he at least had showed her some kindness in the past.

Sansa swallowed, and in her most proper tone she said, "I would be honored to be your wife, Lord Tyrion."

"I'm sure you would." Tyrion shook his head. "There's no need to lie quite so blatantly, Lady Sansa."

She plastered a smile onto her face. "When should we expect to be wed?"

"Three days hence," Tyrion said.

Sansa inclined her head. "Well, then. If you don't mind, I should like to finish this fitting."

"Of course." Tyrion bowed and left the room.

Sansa held her composure as she listened to his footsteps recede down the hall. It was only when she heard the door at the end of the hall open and his footsteps disappear that she dropped the dress from around her shoulders and sank to her knees on the stone floor. Shae crouched beside her and held her shoulders while she cried.


	2. Beautiful Disaster

**A/N: As I didn't mention in last chapter, I'll say now, all content belongs to GRRM and the show writers/producers. I don't get paid for any of this. Reviews are the only payment I get. So if you like it, please review. Please. 3**

 **Beautiful Disaster - Jon McLaughlin**

 _She loves her mama's lemonade_

 _and hates the sound that goodbyes make._

 _She prays one day she'll find someone to need her._

 _She swears that there's no difference_

 _between the lies and compliments:_

 _It's all the same if everybody leaves her..._

 _She would change everything-everything-just ask her_

 _Caught in the in-between, a beautiful disaster_

 _She just needs someone to take her home._

November 6, 299

The morning found Sansa at the tea garden, sitting on the stone wall staring out at the sea. It was hazy this time of day, the clouds kissing the waves and making the land across the sea seem like a foggy dream. Sansa stared out at it, wondering what was to come of her. What kind of life could she possibly hope to have married to a scar-faced imp of a Lannister? It had only been a few short years since she had left Winterfell, high on dreams of becoming Mrs. Joffrey Lannister. She could barely remember the girl she had been back then-the utter and complete fool of a girl she had been. She felt the tears begin down her cheeks again. They'd barely had a chance to dry since Tyrion's visit the night before, and here she was wetting them again.

Footsteps behind her had her turning. She sighed when she saw that it was Lady Margaery. The two of them had become something like friends since Margaery had come here. Sansa had been looking forward to being her sister. It was another disappointment to add to the long list she kept in the back of her mind.

Margaery sat beside her on the wall, looking out at the water with her. They sat in silence for a moment-the sort of gentle, companionable silence Sansa used to enjoy with her mother back in Winterfell.

"Growing up at Winterfell, all I ever wanted was to escape," Sansa heard herself admit. "To come here to the capital-see the southern knights and their painted armor and King's Landing after dark-all the candles burning in all those windows... I'm _stupid_. A stupid little girl with dreams who never learns."

"Come on." Margaery stood, holding a hand out to Sansa. "Come walk with me."

Sansa let herself be pulled to her feet. She trailed next to Margaery, feeling numb.

"I remember the first time I saw you in the throne room," Margaery told her. "I'd never seen anyone who looked so unhappy... I want very much for you to be happy, Sansa, and so does my grandmother. You _would_ have been happy at Highgarden. But women in our position must make the best of our circumstances."

"How do I make the best of my circumstances?" Sansa hissed. "I have to marry _him_."

"Has Lord Tyrion mistreated you?" Margaery asked.

Sansa's lips pursed. "No."

"Has he been kind to you?"

"He's tried." She shrugged, looking away.

"You don't want him, though," Margaery deduced.

"He's a Lannister."

Margaery gave her a sisterly look. "Far from the worst Lannister, wouldn't you say?"

Sansa winced. "I'm sorry. Here I am complaining to _you_..."

"My son will be king," Margaery said coolly. "Sons learn from their mothers. I plan to teach _mine_ a great deal. And _your_ son... If I'm not mistaken, your son might be the Lord of Casterly Rock and the North someday."

"What?" Sansa stared at her. "My son... with him? I'll have to... We'll have to..."

"If it's the pain you're worried about-"

"I'm not afraid of the pain," Sansa said. "Not after what Joffrey's done to me."

"What is it then?" Margaery asked. "He's rather good-looking even with the scar. _Especially_ with the scar."

Sansa gave her an impatient look. "He's a _dwarf_. And Loras-"

"Loras." Margaery rolled her eyes. She gave Sansa a look that made Sansa feel suddenly quite young. "Some women like tall men. Some like short men. Some like hairy men. Some like bald men. Gentle men, rough men, ugly men, pretty men, pretty _girls_."

Sansa shook her head.

"Most women don't know _what_ they like until they've tried it," Margaery pressed. "And, sadly, so many of us get to try so little before we're old and gray. Tyrion may surprise you. From what I've heard, he's quite experienced."

Sansa coughed. "And that's a good thing?"

"It can be." Margaery shrugged. "We're very complicated, you know. Pleasing us takes practice."

Sansa could feel color springing to her cheeks. "How do you know all this? Did your mother teach you?"

Margaery gave Sansa a long look,a nd then at last she smiled. "Yes, sweet girl. My _mother_ taught me."

Sansa shook her head, not sure what to make of that. Her own mother had barely gotten around to telling Sansa where babies came from. She'd known about birthing, of course-Arya had screamed and screamed when she first came into the world, and Bran came so quietly they'd thought at first he was still born. But it wasn't until Rickon that Catelyn Stark took her daughter aside and told her about the woman's role in all of it. And even then, Sansa had been a child, dreaming of marrying a beautiful prince and raising gorgeous, golden-haired children. Joffrey had been every ounce as beautiful as she'd always imagined... and he was a monster. Perhaps there was a chance that his monstrous uncle might be something _more._

* * *

Tyrion sat at the table in his room holding a mug of ale. Through bleary eyes he stared at his hired sword. "She's a _child_."

"She's a foot taller than you," Bronn said.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "A _tall_ child."

"What's the youngest you've ever had?" Bronn asked.

"Not _that_ young."

"How much older?"

Tyrion shrugged uncomfortably. In truth, he hadn't asked the ages of most of his whores. They could have been Sansa's age for all he knew. But he _knew_ Sansa's age, and she was far too young. He said, "Older."

"You're a lord," Bronn said. "She's a lady-and a beauty at that. I don't see the problem."

"Shae isn't going to like it," Tyrion said.

"Shae is a _whore_ ," Bronn reminded her. "Are you gonna marry her? Huh? How did marrying a whore work out for you the first time?"

Tyrion scowled. "I should never have told you about that."

"You want Shae, keep her," Bronn suggested. "Wed one and bed the other. All you have to do is get a son in the Stark girl. He'll be Lord of Winterfell one day. You can rule the North in his name. You'll have two women and a whole kingdom of your own."

"Two women to despise me and a whole kingdom to join them?" Tyrion scowled. It was easy enough for Bronn. Tyrion knew that the moment he went through with this-the moment he actually married Sansa-whores would be lost on him forever. He wanted to think that he could actually keep Shae as his own. He wished he were the type to have a woman on the side. But for all his lechery, Tyrion knew that once he was sworn to another there would be no coloring outside the lines.

Bronn shook his head. "You waste time trying to get people to love you, you'll end up the most popular dead man in town."

Tyrion took a swig of his ale.

Bronn laughed. "You want to fuck that Stark girl. You just don't want to admit it."

"I don't pay you to put evil notions in my head," Tyrion said. "And the ones already there don't need company."

"You pay me to kill people who bother you," Bronn said. "The evil notions come free."

Tyrion shoved his drink away from him, suddenly disgusted with the whole thing. "She's already had so much stolen from her. Her family, her freedom... Now she's being forced into a lifelong commitment to _me?_ Look at me!"

"She could do worse than you," Bronn said.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "You've never lied to me before. Don't start now."

"You're ugly," Bronn said. "I'd never tell you otherwise. If you'll remember, she was betrothed to your handsome nephew. I'm sure if you ask her she'd say she prefers you of the two."

"Two ends of the spectrum."

"There's plenty who'll beat their wives," Bronn said. "Plenty'll whore them out for money, or take their anger out on them, or rape them day and night. You'll treat her well. I know you-you won't be able to help yourself. Trust me, she could do a _lot_ worse than you."

* * *

Sansa stepped back into her room as the sun was beginning to set. Shae wasn't there. Sansa found that she was all right with that. It took a few moments for her to unclasp her dress, but when she did it was simple enough to let it fall down around her body and to step out of it. She changed into a pale nightgown made of the thinnest material. She never could have worn a nightgown like that in Winterfell-even on the warmest days, it was too cool for that kind of dress.

Her room was high enough up in a tower that she couldn't dream of escaping through the window, but she seated herself in the sill with a bit of needlework and let the night breeze cool her arms. She'd always been a natural with a needle. Arya had been atrocious with it. She remembered seeing pricks across Arya's tiny hands and thinking that if her sister could only stop mucking about and pay attention she might not be so terrible at it. They'd been at each other's throats for as long as Sansa could remember. These days, she missed Arya so much at times that it made her chest ache.

Sansa turned her hand and, without thinking very much about it, nicked the needle into the fat, muscled part of her thumb. There was a sharp pain and then the tiniest drop of blood bubbled to the surface, crimson against pale skin. Sansa stared at it a moment, transfixed. She took a breath, shook her head, and wiped the blood against the stone, smearing it away. Clearly she was more tired than she'd thought. She tucked her needlework away and retired early. No one would blame her for skipping supper tonight.

* * *

"You were just playing with me." Shae's tone was bitter.

"Never," Tyrion said. "My feelings for you have not changed. But I _will_ marry Sansa Stark and do my duty by her."

"While I empty her chamber pot and lick your cock when you're bored?" Shae spat.

"No." Tyrion swallowed. Every word he spoke to Shae hurt, and yet he felt more calm than he had anticipated feeling with this conversation. "You'll go away. I will send you with gold and jewels. You'll have a nice house. Servants. You'll be well provided for. Men will line up at the doors to be with you."

Shae stared at him, disbelief etched in her face.

"I'm not going to have a wife and a concubine," Tyrion said. "That is not my way. And I will be wed to Sansa Stark."

"Why?" Shae asked. "We could run away together across the Narrow Sea."

"What would I do across the sea?" Tyrion asked her impatiently. "Be a juggler? I'm a _dwarf_ , Shae. The only reason I have any semblance of a life is because I happen to be a Lannister."

"Lannisters are cunts," Shae spat. "Every one of you."

"Be that as it may," Tyrion said, "I _am_ a Lannister. I can't run away with you. And I will be wed in two days."


	3. Halfman's Song

**A/N: Obviously the ff moves slower than the show in some respects. I will skip time sometimes, so pay attention to the dates or risk being confused. Also, please review 3**

 **The Halfman's Song - Miracle of Sound**

 _There are some who are born distinguished,_

 _there are some who are raised in praise._

 _But me, I was always the last in line,_

 _a blot in my father's gaze._

 _No cheekbones chiseled on a feline face,_

 _no skill or savvy with a sword._

 _But this game we all play is won in wily ways,_

 _and sly is this littlest Lord._

November 7, 299

Sansa woke to the feeling of the sun against her face. She yawned, stretched, and rolled over, her bare feet finding purchase on the icy floor. There was no fire in the hearth. Sansa frowned, looking at the sun again. It had taken a while for Shae to learn her duties, but she _had_ learned them. Usually by this time she'd have a fire going and an outfit selected for Sansa. Instead Sansa pushed herself out of bed and looked on her own for a suitable dress to wear for the day.

She was struggling to figure out how to fasten it when there was a knock on the door to her chambers.

"Um..." Sansa turned towards the doors, not sure how to address the situation.

The door swung inward and Tyrion stepped into the room. Standing beside him was a dark-skinned girl with a nervous smile.

"May I help you?" Sansa asked.

Tyrion coughed. "I, uh... I've brought you a new handmaiden."

Sansa frowned at him. "I rather liked the handmaiden I had."

"I know." Tyrion sighed. "I did, too."

"I don't understand."

Tyrion sighed. He looked at the young girl next to him and said, "If you might wait outside?"

"Of course, m'lord." Her voice was barely audible. She slipped back through the door.

Tyrion closed the door behind her. He said, "I don't know much about marriages."

"Nor I," Sansa admitted.

"I've been told they're built on trust," Tyrion said. "A trait which is perhaps even more important in an arranged marriage."

Sansa inclined her head.

"Shae was a... special friend of mine," Tyrion said. "I met her on the battlefield. And when I was named hand of the king, I brought her with me."

Sansa stared at him.

"My father threatened to kill the next whore he found in my room," Tyrion said. "And so I disguised her as a handmaiden and sent her to you."

Sansa blinked slowly.

"I knew you wouldn't mistreat her," Tyrion said. "And as she wasn't one of Cersei's paid spies, I thought you might find in her the sort of confidant you couldn't find elsewhere."

Sansa tucked a strand of hair carefully behind one ear.

"Now we're to be wed," Tyrion said. "And I.. I might not have asked for this marriage, but neither did you. I intend to do right by you."

Sansa's eyes narrowed. "You mean you're not planning to sleep with other women."

"No," Tyrion said. "I'm not planning to."

Sansa swallowed. That was a lot of pressure. If she was one of many, she might only have to sleep with him in order to become with child. But if she was his only release, he might expect it all the time. She wasn't ready for that.

Tyrion shook his head. "Don't trouble yourself, my lady. I assure you, I'm quite capable of abstaining."

Sansa swallowed. "So where is Shae now?"

"In Pentos," Tyrion said. "I sent her on a nice ship with some good coins. She'll have enough to buy herself a manor home when she gets there and a few servants of her own. Men will be knocking down her door-she'll have her choice."

"A better deal than you or I are getting," Sansa said wryly.

Tyrion chuckled humorlessly.

"And the girl?" Sansa nodded towards the closed door. "Where did you find her?"

"She's the daughter of a special friend of Ser Bronn," Tyrion said. "A nice girl. Polite. A little shy."

"You trust her?" Sansa asked.

Tyrion cocked his head to the side. "I'm weary of trusting anyone, Lady Sansa."

"A wise choice." Sansa inclined her head.

"She'll be a good handmaiden," Tyrion said. "And I don't think she's anyone's spy yet. It's the best I can offer you for now."

"Thank you." Sansa curtsied. She said, "I wish I could have said goodbye to Shae."

For a moment Tyrion looked surprised, and then the surprise faded to sadness. "I'm sorry, Lady Sansa. Truly I am. You've already had so much taken from you-I hadn't wanted to contribute to it."

Sansa inclined her head.

Tyrion turned back towards the door. "Should I bring her in?"

"That would be fine," Sansa said.

Tyrion turned and pulled open the door. The dark-skinned girl stood just outside, twisting the hem of her dress in her hands. Tyrion gave her a gentle smile and gestured for her to come into the room.

She stepped around Tyrion into the room and curtsied. "Hello, Lady Sansa."

"Hello." Sansa stared at the girl, trying to get a feel for her. She was no Shae: Timidity seemed to course through her veins. Sansa swallowed and forced herself to ask, "What's your name?"

"Adelaide, miss."

"Adelaide." Sansa tasted the words on her lips. She said, "Help me finish doing up my dress, Adelaide, so I can go down to breakfast."

"Yes, Miss." Adelaide crossed the room, her feet barely making a sound on the stone floors. She buttoned the back of Sansa's dress deftly with impersonal hands.

Sansa bit back a sigh. She had little in King's Landing. Shae had been a friend, and now she was gone as well-gone because she was bedding the man who was to become Sansa's husband. She frowned, trying to figure out what Shae had seen in him.

"Do you have plans for the day, m'lady?" Tyrion asked her.

Sansa swallowed. "I had thought to spend the morning in the Godswoods."

"Very good, my lady." Tyrion smiled gently. He said, "If it's not too much bother, I should like you to join me for lunch."

"I've already accepted an invitation to lunch with Lady Margaery," Sansa said.

"Very well," Tyrion said. "Dinner, then."

Sansa bit down gently on her lower lip.

"We're to be husband and wife," Tyrion said. "I know I'm not your dream man, Lady Sansa. But if we are to be wed, we ought at least to get to know each other."

"Very well." Sansa inclined her head. "I'll meet you at your room?"

"That would be good." Tyrion gave a small bow. "I'll see you tonight."

Sansa waited for him to leave before turning to her new handmaiden. "Please clean the room while I'm gone. I'll be back just before lunch to change clothes."

"Yes, m'lady," Adelaide whispered.

Sansa closed her eyes for a moment, trying to keep her emotions under control. She selected a book from her vanity and wrapped her arms around it. She had found the Godswood to be the one place in the castle where she wasn't bothered, and so she had taken to reading there on occasion, or practicing her stitching there. After last night, she didn't trust herself with the needle and thread, but she thought the book should be tame enough.

* * *

The Godswood was located far from her chambers, but by now she could travel the path with her eyes closed. It was hard to remember that only a few short years ago she had chased Arya through these very halls, yelling at her about a cat that she'd let into their chambers. What a child she had been then. Now she was considered grown. Engaged to be married. What a joke it all was. What a perfect joke.

* * *

Tyrion looked around his chambers. They were unmercifully small even for him. Bringing a lady into them would make them feel even more cramped. Sansa was supposed to be the Lady of Winterfell. Tyrion scowled and shoved away from his table. He went to find his father.

Tywin was, as usual, in the Tower of the Hand. Tyrion shouldered past his guards to rap on the man's door. There was the sound of shuffling paper and then a gruff voice called, "Come in."

Tyrion pushed open the door. It was a heavy oak thing, and Tyrion had to admit, if only to himself, that he didn't miss pushing it open seven times a day. He walked into the room with his head held as high as possible.

"What do you want?" Tywin's eyes were cold.

For once, Tyrion didn't try to tip-toe around the situation. "I'm here to talk to you about Lady Sansa."

"You're not getting out of the marriage," Tywin said.

"I'm not trying to." Tyrion swallowed. "I ask only that once we are wed you allow us to leave King's Landing."

Tywin's eyes snapped. "And go where?"

"Joffrey is king," Tyrion said. "Any number of lands are at your disposal, even if you don't want to give me Casterly Rock."

"Why would I give you lands?" Tywin scowled. "We've talked about this. I told you-"

"Some women never give birth," Tyrion said quietly. "Even once they have been bedded. Even once they have been bedded hundreds of times, there are still women who never give birth. The Maesters say there are many things which can affect a woman's ability to give birth to healthy children, but the well-being of the mother is always at the top of the list."

"She's not unwell," Tywin said coolly.

"She's _unhappy_ ," Tyrion said. "She'll only be more so once she's been forced to marry me. And the king enjoys torturing her-you'll have to admit that. How can she ever learn to trust me as her husband if I can't prevent her from being beaten whenever the king's in a temper? How can she learn to trust a marriage when she is prisoner here?"

A bit of air slipped through Tywin's lips. "She _is_ a prisoner, Tyrion. While her mother and brother live-"

"Once we're wed, she will be _mine_ ," Tyrion said. "I'm not asking you to let her go back to the Starks. I'm simply asking you to let us have some distance from King's Landing."

Tywin stared at Tyrion for a long moment. He said, "You have to stay for the Royal Wedding."

Tyrion sighed. "Do you think that's wise? Lady Sansa-"

"It's not up for negotiation," Tywin said. "You will stay for the Royal Wedding, and when it's over, the two of you may depart. I'll have a destination for you by then."

It was more than Tyrion had truly expected, and so he bowed before his father could change his mind. They could stay for a wedding. It was only a few days, and then he could take Sansa out of this place. He suspected it was the best wedding present he could offer his young bride.

* * *

Sansa sat against the Weirwood tree with her legs tucked beneath her. The wind toyed with her hair. It was a crisp, cool sort of day, but Sansa was from Winterfell, and even after two years at court she remembered that days could be much colder, and she refused to let the wind scare her away from the one place in the castle where she could have some peace. As it howled, it tugged at the pages of her book. Sansa sighed and let the book drop away from her fingertips, sending a puff of dirt up into the air. She was to be married tomorrow. She would become Mrs. Tyrion Lannister. It all felt so completely cruel and meaningless.

She leaned her head against the Weirwood tree, trying to remember what Margaery had told her. She had said that Sansa might find herself surprised by Tyrion. Surprised by a Lannister... The thought left Sansa feeling cold. She rubbed her hand against the bark of the Weirwood tree, absently at first and then with intention. The bark cut into her palm, and though it stung, the sting seemed to clear her head a little, leaving her free of the painful thoughts that had been cycling since Tyrion first came into her chambers.

* * *

Tyrion had tidied his chambers. He wished he'd thought to ask Shae about Sansa's food preferences before he shipped her away, but since he had not, he asked Varys what his little birds might now, and had ended up with a pretty salad and roasted rabbit for supper. It was a lighter fare than Tyrion was used to, but it looked pretty, and if it might please his lady he was willing to make the sacrifice.

Tyrion had no interest in bedding the girl. He was fourteen years her senior-old enough to have fathered her himself, if only just. But they _were_ to be married, and Tyrion was determined to do right by her. He was determined that even if she could never learn to love him, she might one day grow to think of him as a friend. That, he had decided, would have to be enough.

The knock came on his door just as the dinner bell finished tolling, as Tyrion had known it would. He smoothed his hands down the front of his tunic before crossing to open the door to his chambers. "Lady Sansa. Thank you for joining me."

"Thank you for having me," Sansa replied politely.

Tyrion smiled gently. He gestured for her to come further into the room, and as she neared the small table he'd set for the two of them, he pulled her chair out for her. His father may have hated him and wanted him dead, but Tyrion was still a Lannister, and he had all the manners of a lord. Sansa flashed a shy smile at him before settling herself in the chair.

"You look very pretty," Tyrion told her, nodding at the blue dress she had selected for the evening-a dress the same color as her eyes.

"Thank you," Sansa said curtly. "You look... quite handsome."

"Oh, yes." Tyrion's lips twisted wryly. "The husband of your dreams."

Sansa inclined her head. The light caught her hair, making it look like a dancing fire. She said, "I hope I will not disappoint you, my Lord."

"No, don't," Tyrion said. "You don't have to speak to me as a prisoner any more. After tomorrow you won't be my prisoner, you'll be my wife."

Sansa stared at him silently.

Tyrion nodded. "I suppose that's a different kind of prison. I just... I wanted to say... I'm _trying_ to say-very badly-that I hope to do right by you."

Sansa swallowed at the words.

"And I won't hurt you," Tyrion continued. "Not ever."

Sansa nodded, but it was clear from the dull tint of her eyes that she didn't believe him.

Tyrion sighed. He poured himself a glass of wine and started to do the same to her, but paused. "Do you drink?"

"When I have to," Sansa said.

Tyrion shook his head. "I'm not going to _make_ you drink..."

Sansa stared at the flagon in his hand, and then she nodded. "Yes. I drink."

Tyrion poured the wine and watched her take a long gulp from it before turning her eyes back to him. The twist of her mouth let him know that she didn't like the taste of it, but she drank it just the same. Even as a renown drunkard, Tyrion knew it wasn't a good thing if his future bride had to be drunk to be near him.

He served Sansa dinner before he served himself, and then he cut a slice off his rabbit and stuck it in his mouth. It was juicy and full of flavor, and any regret Tyrion might have had at just having rabbit and salad for dinner disappeared. Sansa took a careful bite of her salad, chewing it slowly as she stared at the grains on the table. As she reached for her goblet, Tyrion noticed dried blood on the palm of her hand.

"My Lady." Tyrion reached forward, stopping the movement of her wrist. He turned it carefully, revealing a palm that was scraped pale and raw in most places and cut deeply in others. "What happened here?"

Sansa pulled her wrist back, looking embarrassed. "I fell, my Lord. I'm a bit clumsy sometimes."

"It's not another trick of my fool nephew?" Tyrion pressed.

Sansa shook her head. "Joffrey's not usually so subtle, my Lord."

"Hmm..." Tyrion took a swig of his wine. He glanced around the room, not sure what to say to the child in front of him. He'd never been particularly good with children. He cleared his throat and said, "What do you do with your free time, my Lady?"

"I read a bit," Sansa said. "And sew... When I lived in Winterfell, I enjoyed horseback riding."

"Not many opportunities here," Tyrion conceded. "Maybe after the wedding we'll get you a new horse."

Sansa's eyes widened, but not in a pleased way. She opened her mouth as if to speak and then it closed again.

"Speak freely, my Lady," Tyrion said.

Sansa looked away. "I'd rather not give Joffrey another thing to take away from me, my Lord."

"Ah." Tyrion took another swig of his wine. "Yes. Well. I don't intend for us to stay in my nephew's house forever."

Sansa looked surprised. "Where would we go?"

"Anywhere but here," Tyrion said dryly. He shoved a forkful of salad in his mouth, making a face at the tasteless lettuce, and then forced himself to swallow. "I've told my father we'll leave just after the royal wedding. Hopefully he'll have a destination in mind for us. If he doesn't... Well, we'll find something."

The barest smile touched upon Sansa's face. Tyrion realized it was the first time he'd seen even a hint of one in all the time she'd been at King's Landing. It was one of the saddest realizations he'd ever come to.

They were silent as they finished the meal. Tyrion was thinking over what he'd just said to Sansa. He was telling the truth-he would find something for them after the royal wedding, even if it was just a hut somewhere. He would have to. His duty as a husband was to ensure his wife's wellbeing, and clearly she was not well as long as they remained in King's Landing under Joffrey's thumb. He could only hope his father would stick to his word. He didn't relish the idea of making a home in a hamlet.

When the meal was finished, Sansa slid her plate away from herself and stood. "I'd like to retire now, if you'll excuse me... Tomorrow will be a long day."

"It will," Tyrion agreed. "I'll see you in the morning, my lady."


	4. Little Lion Man

**A/N: The wedding has arrived! This doesn't deviate too much from the show, but there are a couple subtle differences. Please review 3**

 **Little Lion Man - Mumford & Sons**

 _Weep for yourself, my man, you'll never be what is at your heart_

 _Weep, little lion man, you're not as brave as you were at the start_

 _Rate yourself and rake yourself, take all the courage you have left_

 _and waste it all on fixing all the problems that you made in your own head_

November 8, 299

Tyrion took a breath just outside of Sansa Stark's bedroom door. He smoothed his hand over his crimson tunic and then he reached up and rapped on the door.

There was a rustling from within the room and then the door swung partway open and Adelaide's face poked around the doorframe. She flushed when she saw him and stammered, "L-lord Tyrion."

"Adelaide." Tyrion bowed at her. "May I have a moment alone with my bride."

"O-of course. I'll just-"

"Podrick can escort you down." He stepped to the side, revealing the squire behind him.

Adelaide flushed again and then stepped out. Podrick held an arm out to her. The tips of her ears turned red, but she took the arm and allowed Podrick to escort her down the hall. Tyrion watched them go, shaking his head, and then he turned and pushed open the door. Sansa stood at the head of the room dressed in a dull green dress that made her alabaster skin stand out ever more white.

"My lord." Sansa curtsied. "You look very nice."

Tyrion sighed. "There's really no need to lie to me, Lady Sansa."

Sansa bit down on her lower lip.

"You do look beautiful, though," Tyrion said. The dress was an ugly color-he suspected that Cersei had chosen the fabric-but Sansa wore it as well as she could. She was a very pretty girl-Bronn had, at least, been right about that.

Sansa gave him an uncertain look.

"Come." Tyrion held an arm out to her. "Let's give them a show."

Sansa chuckled. She reached out and allowed Tyrion to escort her to the hall.

* * *

Just outside the doors of the sept, Tyrion dropped his arm away from Sansa, bowed to her, and left her alone so that he could wait for her at the end of the aisle. In that moment at the top of the hall as she stared at the gathered crowd, Sansa contemplated running. What could they do to her for running that hadn't already been done? Kill her? There were days Sansa dreamed of death. Would death be worse than a life married to man she didn't love-a man she could barely stand to look at?

She let her eyes flit to him-the blond dwarf with the ugly scar. He was the only Lannister who'd ever treated her with anything resembling kindness. He'd rescued her from Joffrey's ministrations on multiple occasions. And he'd said he planned her to take her away from here. All she had to do was marry him and he'd take her away from here. She straightened and began the trek down the aisle.

She'd barely gone a step when Joffrey stepped beside her and took her arm.

"What are you doing?" Sansa hissed.

"Your father is gone," Joffrey reminded her with a cruel twist of his lips. "As the father of the realm, it is my duty to give you away to your husband."

Sansa didn't want him anywhere near her, but she knew better than to protest. As they started down the aisle, she could feel everyone's eyes upon her. She closed her eyes, allowing Joffrey to truly lead her, and when her eyes opened again she was at the base of the stairs leading to Tyrion. Tyrion gave her a small, reassuring smile, and though Sansa didn't think it should make her feel better, it did-a little.

Joffrey dropped her arm when she was standing just in front of Tyrion, and then, on his way back downstairs, he took away the stool that was presumably meant for Tyrion to stand on. Sansa winced at the ugly scraping sound the wood made against the marble stairs as Joffrey dragged it towards himself, and again at the thud it made when he dropped it at the foot of the stairs, out of reach of its intended. Snickers sounded in the hall, adding to the humiliation Sansa felt at the whole endeavor. From the look on Tyrion's face, it wasn't bolstering his confidence either.

The Septon didn't seem to notice. He said, "You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection."

Tyrion grabbed the cloak and held it open. He stepped near to her. Sansa, understanding his predicament, crouched so that he could reach to drape the cloak over her shoulders. It was a warm, comfortable cloak, and in truth Sansa liked the idea of someone bringing her under their protection, even if that someone was Tyrion Lannister: She had been protecting herself for far too long.

The Septon announced, "Your Grace. Your Grace. My Lord and Ladies. We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife."

Sansa watched dully as her hand was tied to Tyrion's.

"One flesh," the Septon said. "One heart. One soul. Now and forever."

* * *

Sansa sat at the head table beside her new husband, a man who grew ever-more drunk as the evening continued. A knot was tying itself up in Sansa's stomach. She hated this ceremony, and yet she wasn't sure if she wanted it to end or continue on forever. When the ceremony was done she would be bedded. It would hurt-Margaery and her mother had both spoken of pain-and despite Sansa's bold words to Margaery, she was anxious about that. That anxiety wasn't what kept her from touching her food, however. It was the thought of everything else-of disrobing in front of a man too drunk to remember to be kind, and the thought of staring at that ugly scar while he forced himself inside her. How could she ever try to like a man in the day who was going to do _that_ to her in the night?

She watched him, thinking of their night to come. She watched as he cleaned his teeth while staring at his reflection in a silver platter, and as he coughed on his wine and spat half of it on his tunic. When he pulled the tablecloth up to wipe his drunken face, the knot that had formed in her stomach lurched and she was sure she was going to be sick.

"Will you pardon me, my Lord?" Sansa asked him quietly.

"Of course." Tyrion flashed her a drunken, misty-eyed smile. "Of course. Enjoy."

Sansa looked away from him. She stood and stepped down towards the music and the gaiety, none of it reaching her bones. She didn't know where she was going, and in a moment found herself talking to Adelaide on the edge of the room.

Only a few moments later, Joffrey grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the hallway. "Congratulations, my lady."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"You've done it." Joffrey smirked. "You've married a Lannister. Soon you'll have a Lannister baby. It's a dream come true for you, isn't it?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Sansa said blandly. Tyrion had told her that she'd no longer be a prisoner once they were wed, but as long as Joffrey was alive she knew she would not have the luxury of behaving any other way.

"I suppose it doesn't really matter which Lannister puts the baby into you," Joffrey sneered. "Maybe I'll pay you a visit tonight after my uncle passes out. How'd you like that?"

Sansa knew that she shouldn't react, but she couldn't help the look of horror that crossed her face. There was no thought more despicable than the thought of sleeping with Joffrey.

"You wouldn't?" Joffrey grinned. "That's all right. Ser Meryn and Ser Boros will hold you down."

Before Sansa could think to reply, Joffrey had pulled her back into the main hall. He cried out, "Time for the bedding ceremony."

Most of the hall cheered.

"There will be no bedding ceremony," Tyrion said coldly.

"Where's your respect for tradition, Uncle?" Joffrey asked. "Come, everyone. Pick her up and carry her to her wedding bed. Get rid of her gown-she won't be needing it any longer. Ladies, attend to my uncle. He's not that heavy."

Tyrion slammed his fist on the table. "There will be no bedding ceremony!"

Joffrey gave him a cold look. "There will be if I command it."

"Then you'll be fucking your own bride with a wooden cock," Tyrion hissed.

"What did you say?" There was murder in Joffrey's eyes. " _What_ did you say?"

Sansa stared at Joffrey fearfully. She was sure that this would be the end of Tyrion Lannister. Her marriage might be the shortest on record.

Tywin stepped forward. "I believe we can dispense with the bedding, Your Grace. I'm sure Tyrion did not mean to threaten the king."

Tyrion stared at his father for a moment, and then he inclined his head. "A bad joke, Your Grace, made out of envy of your own royal manhood. Mine is so small. My poor wife won't even know I'm there."

Sansa held her breath, staring at Joffrey.

"Your uncle is clearly quite drunk, Your Grace," Tywin pressed.

"I am," Tyrion agreed. "Guilty."

Sansa let her breath out slowly.

"But it is my wedding night." Tyrion slid from his chair and walked around the table towards Sansa. "My tiny drunk cock and I have a job to do. Come, wife."

Sansa stepped carefully around Joffrey and followed behind a swaggering Tyrion, her arms tight around her waist.

"I vomited on a girl once in the middle of the act," Tyrion said, loudly enough that the entire hall could hear. "Not proud of it. But I think honesty is important between a man and wife, don't you agree? Come, I'll tell you all about it. Put you in the mood."

Sansa felt cold all over as she followed Tyrion out of the great hall towards his chambers. He talked loudly for a while, but when the noise of the reception fell away from them his voice died, too, and Sansa wondered if part of his drunkenness had been a show. He opened the door to his room and led the way inside. Sansa followed after, closing the door gently behind herself.

Not looking at her, Tyrion poured himself a goblet-full of wine.

"Is that wise, my Lord?" Sansa asked.

" _Tyrion_ , Sansa," he said quietly. "My name is Tyrion."

Sansa swallowed. She'd never called an adult male by his first name. She forced herself to say the words. "Is that wise, Tyrion?"

He spun, grinned at her, and held the goblet up in toast. "Nothing was ever wiser."

Sansa watched as he took a long drink from it and then stumbled backwards onto a chaise lounge.

"Astoundingly long!" Tyrion said after a moment.

"What?"

"Neck," he pronounced. "You have one."

Sansa reached a hand up to touch her throat.

"How old are you, exactly?" Tyrion asked.

She shifted uncertainly. "Thirteen."

"Well..." Tyrion took another gulp of his wine. "Talk won't make you any older... My lord father has commanded me to consummate this marriage!"

Sansa nodded in understanding. She had learned in her time at King's Landing that fighting her circumstances only made things worse. Tyrion had said that he wouldn't hurt her, but she doubted, drunk as he was, that he would follow through on that promise if she were to kick and scream at him. She began unbuttoning the front of her dress, facing away from him as if that would somehow protect her modesty.

"Stop," Tyrion said quietly.

Sansa turned to look at him.

"I can't," Tyrion said. He looked down at his lap and corrected, "I _could_. I won't."

"But your father-"

"If my father wants someone to get fucked, I know where he can start," Tyrion growled. A soft look overtook his eyes. "I won't share your bed. Not until you want me to."

Sansa stared at him-at the ugly scar on his face. "What if I never want you to?"

Tyrion looked wounded for a moment, but the look was quickly replaced by the wry smile that he wore so often. He lifted his goblet in a toast and said, "and so my Watch begins."


	5. Queen of Hearts

**A/N: Please review.**

 **Queen of Hearts - Peter Bradley Adams**

 _There's no way the moon can hide on this road_

 _and I'm heading back on a three day ride_

 _to a girl I hardly know_

 _but she could be my Queen of hearts_

 _in my hand-the winning card._

 _So dealer, let the bidding start,_

 _'cause she could be my queen of hearts._

November 9, 299

The morning after her wedding Sansa woke to the sound of a door opening and Tyrion grumbling from the other side of the room, "You really ought to knock..."

"I'm sorry, m'Lord." Adelaide's voice was small. "I... I brought breakfast."

Sansa cracked an eye open. She watched Tyrion, who had snored on the chaise lounge all night long, scrub at his eyes and sit up. Adelaide had a tray of food which she set out on Tyrion's table before crossing to the bed.

Sansa stood. She let Adelaide help her change out of her nightgown and into a dress. Tyrion didn't look at her when her clothes were off-he had his back to her as he served food onto plates. Sansa was reminded of the night before when he refused to bed her. It was more than she had ever dared hope for the night before, and she resolved then and there to do her best by him.

Adelaide stripped the duvet from the bed and stared a the pristine white sheets, an unreadable look in her eyes.

Sansa didn't allow herself to think about it. She crossed the room and sat across from Tyrion, allowing him to serve her eggs and sausage.

"M-my lord," Adelaide said quietly. "Might I have a knife?"

"An odd request." Tyrion gave her a log look, and then he pulled a penknife from a drawer and held it out to her.

Sansa looked at him in surprise.

"If she was going to kill us she wouldn't be so obvious about getting us to provide the knife," Tyrion told her.

Adelaide crossed the room and took the knife from him. As they watched, she crossed the room, lifted her skirts, and cut into her flesh.

Sansa gasped, "Adelaide, what are you-"

Adelaide pulled the sheets and pressed them to her leg, smearing blood across both the fitted and the top sheet until large circles of blood stained them both and the blood had stopped running from her leg. When she was done she dropped her skirts back over her legs, cleaned the blade off on the sheet, and walked back over to them.

"Thank you, m'Lord." Adelaide handed him the knife, not looking him in the eye. She turned away from them, gathered the sheets, and stepped from the room before they could say anything further to her.

"Well," Tyrion said, staring at the door that had closed behind her. "That was certainly interesting."

"She's covering for us," Sansa said.

"So it would appear." Tyrion poured her a cupful of orange juice. "It certainly makes it harder to mistrust her."

Sansa took a sip of her juice.

"What would you like to do today?" Tyrion asked.

All Sansa really wanted to do was curl up in a corner and not come out again until the war was over, but she knew better than to suggest it seriously. Only moments before she had promised herself that she would make an effort in this relationship, and she _would_ do so. She said, "We could take a walk after breakfast. I enjoy the gardens."

"As do I." Tyrion smiled at her. "It'll be good to be seen as a couple. It makes us stronger in the eyes of the people."

"I wasn't scheming," Sansa muttered.

"No," Tyrion agreed. "It doesn't make it any less true, however."

Sansa took a bite of eggs.

Tyrion sighed. "Gods, but my head is _killing_ me."

"Maybe you shouldn't have drank so much," Sansa said.

Tyrion stared at her. "I thought I was going to be sleeping with you."

"Am I that hideous to look at?" Sansa asked.

"Not at all," Tyrion said quietly. "You're quite pretty. But I was not eager to... _take_ you... when I knew you would not enjoy it."

Sansa stared at him. Because he was speaking openly, she decided to do so as well. "You've had whores before."

"Whores make money off the arrangement," Tyrion said. "And are not quite as unwilling as a thirteen-year-old who considers me her enemy."

"I don't consider you my enemy," Sansa said automatically.

"No?" Tyrion cocked an eyebrow at her. "In any case, when I have partaken in whores, I've been careful to ensure they enjoy it as much as whores _can_ enjoy their work. Well, perhaps not _as_ much. Podrick has me beat."

"What?"

"Never mind." Tyrion shook his head. "My point is that I was not eager to bed someone who was not eager to bed me. Hence the drinking."

"You don't normally drink so much, then?" Sansa asked.

"I drink," Tyrion admitted. "Not as much as my father thinks-not as much as Robert Baratheon-but I do drink."

"My father rarely drank," Sansa told him. "Only at celebrations, and he never got drunk."

"Your father was a good man," Tyrion said.

Sansa stared at him. "Do you really think so?"

"I really do." Tyrion stood. "Come. Let's go for that walk."

* * *

The day was warm and lovely, but it was admittedly harder to enjoy the walk with his new wife than Tyrion had anticipated. It was hard enough to try to gain the trust of a woman who'd been his family's prisoner for two years, but even harder when laughter followed them. As two knights snorted particularly loudly, Tyrion's hand clenched in irritation.

"Ser Eldrick Sarsfield," Tyrion muttered quietly. "Lord Desmond Crakehall."

"What are you doing?" Sansa asked.

Tyrion glanced at her. "I have a list."

"A list of people you mean to kill?"

"For laughing at me?" Tyrion gave her a scandalized look. "Do I look like Joffrey to you? No, death seems a bit extreme. _Fear_ of death, on the other hand..."

"You should learn to ignore them," Sansa said.

Tyrion smiled at her. "My lady, people have been laughing at me far longer than they have been laughing at you. I'm the Halfman. The Demon Monkey. The _Imp_."

"You're a _Lannister_ ," Sansa told him. " _I_ am the disgraced daughter of the traitor, Ned Stark."

"The disgraced daughter and the demon monkey," Tyrion muttered. "We're perfect for each other."

Sansa chuckled. "So, how should we punish them?"

"Who?" Tyrion asked. "Whom?"

"Ser Eldrick Sarsfield and Lord Desmond Crakehall."

"Ah." Tyrion thought about it. "I could speak to Lord Varys and learn their perversions. Anyone named Desmond Crakehall must be a pervert."

"I hear that _you're_ a pervert," Sansa told him.

Tyrion laughed. "I am the Imp. I have certain standards to maintain."

Sansa looked excited for a moment. She took a seat on the wall looking over the village and leaned towards Tyrion. She whispered, "We could sheep shift Lord Desmond's bed."

Tyrion gave her a curious look.

In a low voice she explained, "You cut a hole in his mattress and you stuff sheep dung inside. Then you sew up the hold and make his bed again. His room will stink, but he won't know where it's coming from."

"Lady Sansa!" Tyrion said, mock-scandalized.

Sansa smiled. "My sister used to do that when she was angry with me. And she was _always_ angry with me."

Tyrion could see sadness settling behind her eyes. Hoping to hold onto the humor she'd had a moment before, he said, "Why sheep _shift_?"

Sansa leaned even closer to him and whispered, "That's the vulgar word for dung."

It took everything Tyrion had not to laugh at how carefully she whispered that. It was another reminder of how young she was. He muttered, "My lady..."

Mistaking his amusement for embarrassment, she said, "Well, you asked me!"

Tyrion laughed. "I did. Come, Sansa. Let's head back in."


	6. It's Not Over

**A/N: Reviews make me dance for joy!**

 **It's Not Over - Secondhand Serenade**

 _My tears run down like razorblades,_

 _and no, I'm not the one to blame:_

 _It's you. Or is it me?_

 _And all the words we never say come out_

 _and now we're all ashamed_

 _and there's no sense in playing games_

 _when you've done all you can do ..._

 _I lose myself in all these fights._

 _I lose my sense of wrong and right._

 _I cry. I cry._

 _I'm shaking from the pain that's in my head._

 _I just want to crawl into my bed_

 _and throw away the life I've lead_

 _but I won't let it die._

December 4, 299

Tyrion sat hunched over the table in his room, worrying for the umpteenth time about the royal coin. Robert had driven the country into a terrible debt and Joffrey's war had done nothing to waylay it. They needed to raise the taxes if they were ever going to begin repaying their debts, but the truth was that their people were doing even more poorly than they were. Tyrion would be more than happy to turn the task back over to Baelish and escape with Sansa to Destination Unknown.

The door opened and Adelaide stepped in with a pitcher of water.

"Thank you," Tyrion said absently, still staring at his charts.

Adelaide hovered by his elbow, shifting from foot to foot.

Tyrion turned to look at her. "Something else?"

"I just..." Adelaide tugged on a strand of hair. "I only wondered if you had plans for tomorrow."

Tyrion looked at her, not comprehending the question. "Not particularly, no."

"Right." Adelaide ducked her head. She still did not move towards the door.

Tyrion sighed and set his quill down. Folding his hands, he said to her, "Is there a reason you think I _should_ have plans for tomorrow?"

Adelaide tugged on her dress. She said, "No, sir. Only... It _is_ milady's name day."

"Name day," Tyrion repeated blankly.

"She'll be fourteen," Adelaide said.

Tyrion stared at the grains of the table for a moment before admitting, "She hadn't told me... I didn't know."

Adelaide said, "She enjoys lemon cake."

"Then she shall have lemon cake," Tyrion said. "And a nice dinner-whatever you think she'll enjoy, whatever the cost."

"Very well, my lord." Adelaide curtsied.

Tyrion set his papers to the side and stood. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Adelaide."

"Yes, my lord." Adelaide picked up a crumb-covered plate leftover from Tyrion's snack. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"That will be all," Tyrion replied.

* * *

Evening came slowly in King's Landing-much more slowly than it had come in Winterfell. Sansa sat on the garden wall, her legs hanging out towards the city, and listened as the birds sang their goodnight songs. The sound was pleasant enough, but as she listened to it, it was all Sansa could do not to burst into tears. In a few hours her nameday would be upon her. She would be fourteen years old. In Winterfell fourteen was a special age for a woman-a marked sign that a girl was now a woman. Her mother and father would have thrown a feast in her honor. Her father would have given a speech about traditions and responsibilities, and her mother would have gifted her with something beautiful that had been passed down through the years.

Instead she would turn fourteen at King's Landing, married to a man she would never love even if she respected him, prey to an evil king, stuck in this hellish nightmare. Sansa hadn't even bothered to tell Tyrion her birthday was coming. He'd have done something special, she was sure, but he'd have done it out of duty to her. He took his duty as a husband seriously, she'd give him that much. But Sansa knew that he didn't want this marriage any more than she did, and the thought of him spoiling her when they hardly knew each other was almost too much to bear. She pulled a sewing needle from her dress, and with her eyes focused on the burning sky she pressed the needle into her skin, halfway up her arm where her dresses would cover the marks. She stuck herself with the needle again and again, and somehow the pain kept her tears at bay.

She waited until darkness fell before swinging her legs back inside the garden and making the slow trek back up to the castle. Once ensconced within the castle walls, the torches on the walls guided her back to the room she shared with her husband, the imp. She could see the lights on in their rooms, and any dream she'd had that he might already be asleep washed away. Sansa straightened, her face bland, and opened the door.

* * *

Tyrion was on the chaise lounge, his back against the arm, his legs extended out. He held a book between his hands. Without looking up he said, "You were out late tonight."

"Sorry, my Lord," Sansa replied automatically.

Tyrion lowered his book. " _Tyrion_ , Sansa. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Sansa smiled wanly. "Just tired."

Tyrion nodded in response.

Sansa stepped behind the divider to change. She undid her dress and dropped it to the floor, letting her slip join it a moment later. She replaced them with a pale pink dressing gown. Only when she'd covered it with a robe did she step around them towards her husband.

His eyes were focused on the book in his hands. He said, "Have you eaten?"

"Earlier," Sansa lied. She hadn't felt much like eating today, but she didn't want it to become an issue between the two of them. In the near-month that they had been together, Sansa had found that Tyrion cared about very few things, but making sure that she was fed was near the top of that list. She wasn't sure why.

Tyrion flipped a page in his book. He looked for all the world as if he were relaxed and at home on the chaise lounge, but Sansa was sure it wasn't true. She'd tried to rest on that chaise lounge on a few occasions to do her needlework. It was the single least comfortable piece of furniture she had ever come across. The floor would be a better place to relax. Not for the first time since she'd married him, Sansa told herself that she should tell Tyrion it was okay if he joined her in bed-to sleep, nothing else.

Not for the first time, she couldn't bring herself to say the words. She climbed into bed, pulling the covers over herself. As she stared at the drapes around the bed, she concentrated on the steady sound of Tyrion Lannister turning page after page in his book, trying to let it drown out the worries that clogged her brain most of the time.

Just as she was drifting to sleep she heard a voice across the room whisper, "Good night, Lady Sansa."


	7. Straight Away

**A/N: Some Sansa/Tyrion bonding in this chapter. Please review!**

 **Straight Away - Mat Kearney**

 _This moment right here is one we can't suspend._

 _Your breath and mine tells me just where I have been._

 _You know the song of long lost cause._

 _We're running in circles and coming back again._

 _Now could I go the long way-_

 _taking the easy way down?_

 _If I was wrong would you show me_

 _where all that I lost can be found?_

December 5, 299

The morning of her fourteenth name-day dawned grey and cold. Sansa opened her eyes and closed them again almost immediately. She decided that if there was any day in the world one should sleep away, this was it. There was a heaviness in the air of a storm brewing, and already she could feel the steady aching in her stomach that meant her red flower would soon be blooming.

The door to her room opened and Adelaide poked in. A month into her service, the girl was still as skittish as the day they first met. She was a funny girl, Adelaide-shy and flighty most of the day, she had moments of boldness that surprised Sansa. She'd caught Sansa once, pressing the needle to her skin, and though she hadn't said a word, the hard look in her eyes and the brusque way she had pushed Sansa's hands away and cleaned the wound had spoken volumes. Since then Sansa found she had to be more careful to conceal what she was doing.

"A-are you still in bed?" Adelaide asked. "Only Lord Tyrion has arranged for you to breakfast with Lady Margaery and Lady Olenna."

Sansa frowned, wondering why Tyrion would arrange such a thing. She thought back to the night before and decided that he must have suspected she was lying about eating dinner. Of all the ways there were to deal with it, Sansa found that this wasn't the worst option. She liked Margaery and Olenna. Margaery was like the older sister Sansa had always dreamed of.

It was a sobering thought. If she'd _had_ an older sister, she'd probably be the one married to Tyrion, and where would Sansa be? Dead, probably, as Arya was presumed to be.

"Another thing, milady," Adelaide said quietly.

Sansa raised her eyebrows questioningly.

"Lord Tyrion requests you join him tonight for dinner," Adelaide said.

Sansa rolled her eyes, irritated, but then she nodded. "I'll meet him here at the dinner bell, then."

"Very well, my lady." Adelaide selected a dress and helped Sansa into it.

* * *

Tyrion entered the smithy, coins clinking against his leg. He had roused himself early that morning, deciding that one gift he could give Sansa would be a little freedom on her name day. He didn't delude himself into thinking they were the best of friends yet, and though he intended to celebrate with her that night, he thought she might appreciate a morning away from him. He'd spoken to Lady Margaery the day before and asked her if she might like to have breakfast with Sansa. He himself wasn't sure if Margaery could be trusted, but Sansa wouldn't have lasted this long at King's Landing without knowing the right things to say to the right people, and she needed girls her own age to talk to. She spent far too much of her time brooding. It couldn't possibly be healthy.

The blacksmith didn't say a word to Tyrion. He pulled a wrapped package from beneath the counter and held it out to him. "Exactly to your specifications, my Lord."

Tyrion opened the package and examined its contents. Nodding his approval, he wrapped it again and flicked a few gold dragons at the smith. "Thank you. I trust your... discretion?"

"Of course," the smith said.

"Very good." Tyrion flicked another coin at the man, turned, and left, the package under one arm.

* * *

The gardens where the Tyrell women took their breakfast were extraordinarily beautiful, even when the clouds hung heavy in the sky and the mists made Sansa's hair wild. She greeted them cordially, pressing a chaste kiss to Margaery's cheek and curtsying to Lady Olenna.

"Oh, cease with the formalities, you silly girl," Lady Olenna said. "It's only us."

"Yes, sit." Margaery patted the chair beside her.

Smiling gently, Sansa sat beside Margaery. "Thank you."

"Grandmother bought sweet biscuits." Margaery placed a couple on a plate and slid them in front of Sansa.

"I've never been one for eggs and fruit," Olenna said, lifting a cup of tea to her withered lips.

Sansa smiled. "Me, either. I much prefer biscuits. My mother..." She trailed off, frowning.

"What about your mother?" Margaery pressed.

Sansa gave a weak smile. "Nothing. I was just thinking, my mother used to say I was lucky I'm so tall or I'd be incredibly fat."

Olenna laughed. "She sounds like my kind of woman."

"She's a traitor," Sansa replied automatically.

"Yes, yes, of course she is." Olenna rolled her eyes. "Have another biscuit, girl."

Sansa's skin itched. She didn't care much about biscuits just now. As much as she enjoyed Margaery and Olenna, at that moment she wished to be away from them, tucked away somewhere private with her thoughts and her sewing needle.

Margaery reached out and clasped Sansa's hand. "It's been a while since we've seen you. How are you? Is Tyrion still treating you well?"

"Quite well," Sansa said.

"And how is bedding him?" Olenna asked brazenly. "Enjoyable?"

Sansa flushed and looked away.

"Stop, grandmother," Margaery said. "They're not as open about such matters where she's from. You're embarrassing her."

Sansa nodded, willing to take Margaery's excuse. Quietly she added, "A lady doesn't kiss and tell."

"Of course," Olenna said. "Do you think it's been productive, though? It's been nearly a month..."

"Not yet," Sansa answered honestly. "I'm flowering even today."

Margaery gazed at her with sympathetic eyes.

"It'll happen soon," Olenna said confidently. "Sometimes takes a year. Sometimes takes more."

Sansa nodded. Internally she was thinking that it would take a lot more than a year for her to get pregnant without having sex with the man.

* * *

Tyrion had gone to lengths to lay out the table. As the dinner bell drew nearer, he lit the two candles in the center of the table. He listened to the bells toll, and a moment later the chamber doors opened and Sansa stepped in. Her day with Margaery and Olenna seemed to have done her some good: Her cheeks were pink, and there was some life in her eyes.

Sansa's eyes stopped for a moment when she saw the spread on the table. "My Lord. Is this an occasion?"

"I should think so," Tyrion said. "It's your fourteenth name day."

Sansa's face fell. "Oh."

Tyrion frowned. When Adelaide told him about Sansa's name day, she hadn't mentioned Sansa having any particular aversion to it. Still mulling it over he pulled a chair out for her and, once she had seated herself, pushed it in with her in it. As he rounded the table to sit across from her he said, "I wonder. Is there a reason you didn't mention your name day to me? I am your _husband_."

"You _are_ my husband," Sansa repeated. "And you will do your duty by me. I know that."

Tyrion stared at her, not comprehending.

"A name day is supposed to be a celebration," Sansa told him. "Half the castle could care less if I have one, and you... Well. You will do your duty."

Tyrion winced. He didn't try to correct her. Instead he said, "I know that dinner with me is not the sort of name day you might have enjoyed at Winterfell. Is it really better for the day to pass without any acknowledgement?"

Sansa shrugged. She said, "It just seemed foolish to bring it up. _Children_ care about their name days."

Tyrion snorted. "I've had twenty-seven name days, and I've celebrated all but the first ten."

"Ten?" Sansa leaned forward, interest touching her eyes. "You left home when you were ten?"

"No." Tyrion took a drink of wine. He inclined his head. "My father left Casterly Rock when I was ten to come here to the capital."

"Oh." Sansa took a bite of her chicken and a gulp of water. She said, "So how did you celebrate your name days?"

Tyrion frowned. "Mostly with whores, actually."

Sansa snorted.

"You weren't wrong when you called me a pervert," Tyrion said apologetically. "I haven't been to a brothel since we were wed."

"Nearly a month," Sansa said dryly. "A record."

Tyrion flushed.

"I'm sorry." Sansa looked down at the table. "That was spiteful. I know you're doing what you can to make this marriage...manageable."

Tyrion winced at her choice in wording but did not attempt to correct her. They continued their meal as they had most of their meals together: In silence. Only when Tyrion was sure that she had eaten most of what was on her plate did he stand, calling for Adelaide to take their plates away.

"My Lord?" Sansa looked at him in surprise.

"I have a gift for you," Tyrion told her.

Sansa's eyebrows raised into her brow line.

"Two, actually," Tyrion corrected, inclining his head.

"Two gifts?" Sansa repeated. Not knowing what else to say, she mumbled, "You'll spoil me."

"I very much doubt it." As Adelaide left the room, their dishes in her hands, Tyrion crouched beside the chaise lounge and pulled two packages out. He set them on the table in front of Sansa.

Sansa stared at them. They were wrapped simply in brown paper, twine holding the paper in place. It was the sort of practical wrapping her father would have used. For a moment she toyed with the twine, thinking about what these packages might hold. Nothing within them, she was sure, could make up for the name day she should have enjoyed.

Tyrion sat down across from her. "They won't bite, Sansa."

Sansa blinked at him, and then she nodded. She tugged one of the packages closer to herself and pulled on the twine. The paper fell away and Sansa found herself looking at a simple necklace with a small pendant. The pendant had a stone in the center of it, a small red stone. It was a simple necklace-an everyday sort of necklace. Sansa licked her lower lip. "It's beautiful, Tyrion. Thank you."

"Hold it up to the light," Tyrion said.

Sansa frowned at him.

"Hold it to the light and look directly into that stone," Tyrion pressed.

Sansa did as she was bid, holding the pendant up and staring at the stone. She realized that there was a picture carved at the bottom of the pendant, magnified by the stone. Squinting, she brought the stone closer to her eye. The picture, in intricate detail, was of a direwolf. Sansa gasped.

"It's traditional for a lady to get a symbol of her house on her fourteenth name day," Tyrion said. "I had to be... creative... as I'm sure you can imagine."

"I love it," Sansa said quietly. "It's perfect."

Tyrion offered her a small smile.

"Thank you, truly," Sansa said.

"It's the least I could offer you," Tyrion said, "after everything you've been through."

Sansa unclasped the necklace and placed it around her neck. It was a pretty piece of jewelry in its own right-simple, but pretty. Sansa suspected that it was simple on purpose: It was stylish, but not so extravagant that people would ask for a closer look at it. She could wear the direwolf against her breast without anyone the wiser.

"You've one more present," Tyrion reminded her.

Sansa shook her head. "You've already given me plenty."

"Should I take it back, then?" Tyrion asked, nodding at the remaining parcel on the table.

Sansa chuckled.

"Go on."

She smiled at him and once again untied the parcel. When the paper fell away this time it was to reveal a simple black hair comb, the sort that she would wear in her hair. Sansa frowned as she looked at it. She had a dozen like it. Next to the necklace it was almost a let down. Still, she did not want to seem ungrateful, and so she said, "Thank you, Tyrion. I shall wear it proudly."

Tyrion rolled his eyes. He reached across the table, held the tines of the comb in his hands, and pushed on the back. A small, sharp knife slipped out, the blade the size of Sansa's thumb. Sansa stared at it, disbelief evident on her face.

"A lady should always be able to defend herself," Tyrion said. "You can't kill anyone with a blade this size, of course, but you could hurt someone long enough to run if the need for it should arise... I thought it might make you feel safer during these troubling times."

Sansa carefully sheathed the knife again. "It does. Thank you, Tyrion."

Tyrion inclined his head. "Happy name day, Sansa."

"Thank you, Tyrion." She touched her hand once more to the necklace around her throat. Duty alone, she realized, would not have provided her with gifts this thoughtful.

* * *

Some time later, when lemon cakes had been eaten and Sansa had placed her new necklace and comb on the dresser, Tyrion announced that he would retire to bed. Sansa swallowed, watching as he walked towards the chaise lounge.

"That seat is terribly uncomfortable, Tyrion," Sansa said quietly. "You could... That is, we could..."

Tyrion watched her struggle through her words.

"Do you think we could share a bed," Sansa said, her face heating, "without _sharing_ a bed?"

Tyrion gave her a searching look. "Only if you're okay with it, Sansa. I'm _fine_ on the lounge. I don't take up much room."

Sansa's face still felt hot, and part of her did want to take the offer back, but instead she shook her head. "I think... I think sharing the bed is a... good step."

"Okay," Tyrion said quietly.

They changed into their nightclothes on opposite sides of a privacy divider. When they were both dressed, Tyrion let Sansa make the first move. She took the side of the bed furthest from the door, sliding under the covers and holding herself stiff as a board. Tyrion frowned, plucking a book from a shelf and carrying it with him as he approached the bed. He hoped that if he didn't try to cuddle up to her right away she might be more comfortable with the arrangement.

As he read he could feel her holding her body stiffly. Every once in a while she'd turn, and then turn again. Every time he glanced over it was to find her eyes still open.

When he'd read a chapter without change, Tyrion sighed. "I can go back to the chaise lounge, Sansa. I don't mind."

"No," Sansa said. She gave him a nervous look. "I... If it doesn't work tonight, I'm afraid I'll lose the nerve to try again."

Tyrion bit back a sigh. She was so _very_ young for sharing a bed to be such an ordeal. He turned back to his book.

Sansa rolled over again.

"I could read to you," Tyrion offered.

"What?"

Tyrion glanced at her, and then he flipped to the front of the book and began to read aloud. "Once upon a time, in a land far from Westeros, there lived a boy who dreamed of being a king..."


	8. Let Her Go

**A/N: Tyrion is a little pushy in this chapter... The characters take me on the journey they want to take. *shrug* Please review!**

 **Let Her Go - Passenger**

 _Staring at the bottom of your glass,_

 _hoping one day you'll make a dream last,_

 _but dreams come slow and they go so fast._

 _You see her when you close your eyes._

 _Maybe one day you'll understand why_

 _everything you touch surely dies._

December 6, 299

Sansa woke aching and tired, signs that her red flower had hit her in full force. She groaned as she sat up, pushing the covers off of herself. As they fell, she realized that her flower had broken through her nightclothes last night and stained the cover. She stared at the stain, and then, her face hot, she looked over to where her husband had begun to scrub at his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Sansa whispered, mortified. "I thought I was covered for the night."

"What?" Tyrion blinked at her blearily. His eyes followed the trail of hers to the blood staining the sheets. He shook his head and scrubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Oh. That."

"I'm _sorry,"_ Sansa repeated.

"For what?" Tyrion swung his legs out of bed and slid to the floor. "We both knew you'd flower, considering."

"But it... leaked," Sansa whispered. "Right next to you... It's _disgusting."_

"It's not ideal," Tyrion said. "But it is a risk one takes when sleeping next to a lady. There's no need to be dramatic about it. Adelaide will wash the sheets."

Sansa stared at him, a mixture of surprise and awe on her face.

Tyrion sighed. "A man is not much of a man if he's scared of a little blood, Sansa. Come, change into your morning clothes and we'll grab some breakfast in the gardens."

Sansa felt the world spin around her. She pressed a hand to her stomach. "Actually, my Lord, I think I'd rather skip breakfast if you don't mind."

"I _do_ mind," Tyrion said, though his words were gentle. "It's certainly not _that_ big of a deal for you to bleed in the bed."

"No." Sansa shook her head. She gave him an apologetic look. "It's... _uncomfortable_. The flowering."

"Ah." Tyrion's expression cleared. "Of course it is. I have heard rumors. Worse for some women than others, I've heard. Cersei turns into a complete _dragon_ when hers is upon her."

Sansa smiled weakly.

"You should get dressed just the same," Tyrion said. "The fresh air will do you some good."

Sansa gave him a pleading expression. She wanted nothing more than to climb back into her bed and clutch her stomach, which was tight and cramping.

" _Trust_ me, Lady Sansa," Tyrion said.

Through gritted teeth Sansa said, "You have a lot of experience with _flowering_ , my Lord?"

"I have experience with _women_ ," Tyrion replied lightly. "Flowering women, even. Please get dressed, Sansa."

Sansa sighed, wiping her hair away from her face, but she could not truly deny him. He was her husband. He owned her; if he wanted to, he could have her dragged out by her hair. The fact that he _wouldn't_ didn't change the fact that Sansa was sworn to obey him.

As Sansa was behind the curtain fixing rags into place she heard Tyrion call, "I'll meet you in the gardens in half an hour."

Sansa sighed, wiping sweat from her brow. "Yes. Of course."

* * *

Half an hour later, Sansa made her way to a shaded section of the gardens and took a seat on a low wall. It took every bit of her energy to keep her face bland when all she could think of was the pain in her stomach. She could feel sweat beading on her forehead.

It was a few long moments before Tyrion came towards her, Adelaide trailing behind him with food. Sansa frowned as she looked at the two of them. Tyrion had a cup in his hands, and she wondered if he was already drinking.

"My Lady." Tyrion bowed politely when he came close, a gentle smile on his lips. He held the cup in his hands out to her. "For you."

Sansa took the cup into her hands and looked at its contents questioningly. It looked almost like milk, except that chunks of... _stuff_... floated in it. Sansa's nose crinkled in distaste.

"It's not attractive," Tyrion admitted.

"No," Sansa agreed.

Tyrion sat next to Sansa on the wall. He said, "I got the recipe from a whore I bedded once."

She stared at him over the cup.

"She was from Essos," Tyrion told Sansa. "She had once been a slave. On Slaver's Bay they give this... concoction... to slaves so that they can continue their work while flowering."

"That's horrible," Sansa says.

"Slavery is horrible," Tyrion said. "But the drink is effective. Drink. It will help."

Sansa gave him a nervous look and then she tipped her head back and drank the... whatever it was. The texture was thick and full of leaves, like a toddler's attempt at a stew, but the taste was less unpleasant than Sansa had anticipated. Mostly it taste of milk and ginger, though there were other things floating in the drink she did not recognize. When the first sip wasn't terrible she pressed on, drinking more of it.

Adelaide lay out their breakfast for them, a light affair of fruits and biscuits. Sansa stared at it, but for the time she was content to just sip on the drink Tyrion had given her. She wasn't sure if it was actually the drink or just the thought, but the cramps seemed to be receding slightly.

Tyrion stretched his hands out beside him on the wall. He said, "It's a beautiful day."

"It is," Sansa agreed blandly.

Tyrion sighed, the sound thick with contentment. He said, "I used to love days like this when I was a boy-warm, but not hot, with just the touch of a breeze."

Sansa looked at him. He never talked about his childhood.

"Casterly Rock sits on the sea," Tyrion told her. "The harbor is full of ships. On days like this, when the wind was good, it put even my father in a good mood. My brother, Jaime, had a ship. He used to take me sailing on days like this. Just the two of us-Cersei hated sailing."

Sansa set her now-empty cup beside her on the wall. "Do you miss him? Jaime?"

Tyrion's lips quirked. He said, "He's the only one in my family who has even seen me as anything more than a dwarf."

Sansa's eyes fell to her lap.

"I'm sure you miss your siblings as well," Tyrion said, his tone apologetic.

Sansa swallowed. "I was horrible to my siblings."

Tyrion stared at her.

"My sister and my brother Jon especially," Sansa told him. "I liked to remind Jon that he was a bastard. And Arya... Gods, I hated her. She was always getting into fights. I thought she'd never learn to be a true lady."

Tyrion watched her quietly.

Sansa gave a sardonic smile. "I hated them both, and now I lie awake at night wondering if I'll ever see them again."

"I'm sorry," Tyrion said sincerely.

"Me, too." Sansa moved her cup to sit beside the fruits and biscuits Adelaide had laid out. She stood. "I'd like to go to the Godswood if you don't mind."

"Of course," Tyrion told her. "I'll see you this evening."

* * *

The Godswood were as quiet and abandoned as they always were. Sansa sat away from the doors just the same. She stretched her legs out and rested her back against the Weirwood tree. Only when she was settled did she reach up and pull the comb from her hair, letting her hair fall down around her shoulders.

It was a pretty comb, she thought. Plain, but pretty. She smiled at the thought. She never would have thought that a proper gift from a Lannister would be understated, but she appreciated it all the more because it was: A black comb could be worn in her hair at any time, regardless of her dress.

Sansa pushed on the base of the comb, popping out the little knife hidden within. The blade caught the light of the sun, shimmering for a moment. Sansa touched the base of her thumb to the blade. When she pulled it away a thin tendril of blood remained behind. Sansa whistled. She'd have to be careful with this-it was sharp. Much sharper than her little sewing needle.

* * *

That evening she met Tyrion in their chambers as they usually did. Tyrion had a wry look on his face. He tugged on the hem of his tunic, a sign she had learned over the weeks meant that he was nervous.

"What is it?" Sansa asked him. The comb was back in place upon her head.

Tyrion cleared his throat. "My father has requested we dine in the Great Hall tonight."

"Oh." Sansa looked down at her hands.

"We're lucky to have avoided it this long," Tyrion said. "I've been placating him by going to the Small Council meetings sober."

"I appreciate that," Sansa said quietly.

Tyrion took her hand in his and gave it a small squeeze. "I know you're not feeling well. If you need to beg off-"

"I hardly think informing them that I'm flowering will soften their disposition towards me." Sansa checked the comb in her hair and touched the necklace against her breast, two small talismans of safety. Talismans from her husband... She looked at him, worry in her eyes. "You won't lose your temper again, will you? Joffrey almost had you beheaded last time..."

"I was drunk last time," Tyrion said. "I won't be drunk tonight."

Sansa nodded carefully.

Tyrion led his bride, his arm on hers. He wished that he were a different sort of man-taller, stronger, more capable of offering comfort to the wife he hardly knew. She held her head high, and the careful mask she had spent the past two years perfecting was perfectly attached to her face. That alone told Tyrion that she was terrified. He had learned in the past month that the mask only went up when she was upset or nervous. When she was relaxed, her face was full of expression.

The rest of his family was already in the Great Hall when Tyrion and Sansa entered. Tyrion envied her careful control. His own face was set in a grim line. Even as a boy he had hated dining with his family. You could never relax around them-never let your guard down. Tyrion sighed, leading Sansa to two empty seats at the end of the table.

"Nice of you to join us, Uncle," Joffrey said, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "And Lady Sansa. I see you're still _walking_. A month of fucking my uncle hasn't ruined you?"

"Joffrey..." Cersei said quietly.

Tyrion said, "I told you, Your Grace, my manhood is so _very_ small. She hardly knows when I am there."

Joffrey snorted. To Sansa he said, "Is that true? Just slips in and out?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Sansa said automatically.

"Well, you can't expect _too_ much from a dwarf." Joffrey, mollified for the time being, slouched back in his chair.

Tyrion served Sansa a plate of food from the platters before he served himself. He served her despite knowing that when she was nervous her stomach was turned away from food-despite knowing that she would likely not eat a bite. She hadn't eaten at breakfast, either, and if he wasn't careful he would watch her wither away in front of him.

Dinner was nearly over when Joffrey stood again addressed Tyrion and Sansa. Without preamble he called to them, "My future queen doesn't want you at my wedding."

Tyrion looked at him sharply.

"What do you think of that?" Joffrey pressed.

Tyrion stood. "Have we offended you, my lady?"

"No." There was a gentle smile on Margaery's face as she stood. "I only said to Joffrey that I thought it might be... awkward... to have the woman he was once engaged to at our wedding."

"That's understandable," Tyrion said gently.

"Yes." Joffrey smirked. "So it's decided. You two will leave King's Landing before our wedding day."

"Leave for where?" Tyrion asked.

Tywin said, "Casterly Rock."

Tyrion shot him a sharp look.

"You will rule there in my stead," Tywin said, "until such a time that the North has been reclaimed and we can send you _there_."

Tyrion had dreamed of ruling Casterly Rock for most of his life, but now that the task had been given to him, it felt bittersweet. If his father had put him in charge of Casterly Rock it meant that he had truly given up on Jaime.

"Petyr Baelish will be back in two days," Tywin said. "You will leave in three. Baelish will take over as Master of Coin."

"Very well, Father." Tyrion stood, touching Sansa's hand gently as he rose. "If you'll excuse us, it seems we have preparations to make."

Joffrey waved them away, looking bored. As he was turning to escort his lady from the hall he caught his father give him a single, tight nod.

* * *

Tyrion had to hold it to his young bride: She knew how to keep her composure. It wasn't until they were alone in their rooms, the door closed and bolted behind them, that she allowed the smile to take her lips. Tyrion smiled as well. It would be good to put distance between them and their sadistic king.

Sansa spun to look at him. "Did you know?"

"I had hoped," Tyrion admitted. "I spoke with Lady Margaery yesterday. I wasn't sure if she'd have the influence already, before the crown sits upon her head."

Sansa's eyes glistened. She stooped in front of him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. It was a small, chaste thing.

Tyrion smiled and bowed, "M'lady."

"Three days," Sansa whispered. "Three days and I'll be free of this place."


	9. Learning to Breathe

**A/N: Please review!**

 **Learning to Breathe - Switchfoot**

 _Hello, good morning, how you do?_

 _What makes your rising sun so new?_

 _I could use a fresh beginning, too._

 _All of my regrets are nothing new,_

 _so this is the way that I say I need you._

December 7, 299

Sansa's eyes popped open as the first tendrils of sunlight reached their bedroom window. She'd had a fitful night's sleep, too excited now that her time at King's Landing was drawing to a close to really doze. She ran a hand over her face and then rolled onto one side to look upon the sleeping form of her husband. Tyrion slept more soundly than anyone she'd ever met, and the steady rise and fall of his chest was the only sign that he was alive when he slept. Although he fell asleep after her most nights, she felt sure that when he fell asleep he did not move a muscle the whole rest of the night. It was a skill she wished she had. She was a thrasher at night, and on her side of the bed the blankets were always tangled around her legs by the time she opened her eyes.

Sansa let out a small breath of air and stood. Lord Baelish was due in to King's Landing tomorrow, and Tyrion would likely spend the entire day speaking about the king's coin with him, which meant that they needed to make the most of today to ready their preparations. As Tyrion continued to sleep, was small hand furled hear his mouth, Sansa began readying her things for travel. It had been two years since she'd been on the road, travelling from Winterfell to King's Landing. She'd been a little girl then. Now she was a woman.

She packed away the combs and jewelry that she had gathered, wrapping each item neatly in a handkerchief before placing it in a small wooden box that had come with her from Winterfell. It was one of the few personal possessions she'd been permitted to keep, having no markings from Winterfell on it, and she was inordinately attached to it despite its simplicity. The only items she kept out were her name day presents from Tyrion, which she intended to wear.

Tyrion stirred as she was closing the lid of the box. He scrubbed at his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"I thought I'd start packing while you slept," Sansa said.

"The maids will do that."

"I like doing it myself," Sansa said. "That way I can be sure nothing is missed."

"Hm." Tyrion slid from the bed, landing heavily on the floor. "Tomorrow, then, while I'm occupied with Baelish. We have things to do today."

"Yes, my Lord."

" _Tyrion_ ," he corrected automatically. He stumbled to the table in the center of the room and poured himself a glass of water. Sansa watched, bemused, as he upended the water over his head. It dripped down his face, pasting his golden curls to his skin.

"Are you okay?" Sansa asked.

"Just tired." Tyrion shook his head like a dog after a bath. "I spent most of the night making preparations-figuring out how much food we'll need, how many men... My dear father hasn't given us a lot of time."

"Oh." Sansa looked at him. There were dark circles around his eyes, and she remembered now that the candle next to the bed had been going until quite late.

"Nothing for you to worry about." Tyrion smiled tiredly.

"Of course." She held herself still, not sure what to do if he was in a mood.

Tyrion sighed. "Get dressed, Sansa. We'll grab a bite in the city-we have many things to attend to today."

* * *

King's Landing had once been the richest city in the Seven Kingdoms. When Sansa had arrived two years ago she had loved exploring the little stores with her nanny. She remembered one day when Arya had raced through the streets after a cat and they had both been dragged back to the castle early. Sansa had been examining a little golden ring at the time, wondering if she could convince their father to purchase it for her. She'd been so angry with Arya that she'd slapped her against the face, leaving a red mark that lasted on her pale face for an hour.

Now the city was starving. She and Tyrion had eaten breakfast in a dreary tavern surrounded by King's Guard, served by a wench with suspicious eyes. She had trailed after Tyrion as he purchased supplies for their trips. The food he'd written out orders for, but he went personally to gather new garments for the two of them, horses, and men.

The worst part of traveling the cities were the whispers that followed after them. Things were calmer than they had been the time the King's caravan was attacked in the city, but Sansa still kept close to Tyrion and his guard. Tyrion, sensing her discomfiture, gripped her hand in his and gave her a reassuring smile.

She was grateful when they turned back towards the castle and put distance between themselves and the cities. As she slipped her hand away from Tyrion's, she mused that it was just another things the war had stolen from them all.

"Most of the matters are dealt with," Tyrion said. "Tomorrow while I'm assisting Baelish you can say goodbyes, if you have any to make."

"And pack," Sansa reminded him.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Yes. Pack."

Sansa poked him lightly in the ribs the way she might have done to Robb or Bran when they were teasing her for being too girly. "You'll be happy I packed when we get to the Rock and your favorite books arrive with us."

"I'm a Lannister," Tyrion said. "I could send for books."

"And they would take months to arrive," Sansa replied. "You told me it would take us three weeks to get to Casterly Rock if the weather holds."

Tyrion sighed. "Very well. You pack, and I won't say another thing about it, even if that _is_ why we have servants. But there is one matter we must discuss."

Sansa raised an eyebrow, encouraging him to continue.

"We're allowed to take some servants with us," Tyrion said. "Not a lot-there are already some servants at Casterly Rock, of course. But those will be my father's servants, and we are permitted to bring some of our own-people to assist us in the journey."

"Podrick and Bronn and Adelaide," Sansa supplied.

"Naturally." Tyrion inclined his head. "Bronn has a... friend... Adelaide's mother. If it pleases your lady, I thought we might bring her as well."

Sansa frowned. "Adelaide's mother? She'd be old for a handmaiden, wouldn't she?"

"She would." Tyrion frowned. "I thought we could say she was... a nanny."

"A nanny." Sansa stared at him.

Tyrion sighed. "I know I said I wouldn't press you, milady, and I _won't_ , but we are expected to produce heirs. Bringing a nanny with us will show to everyone else that we intend to have heirs in a short amount of time."

Sansa reached out and squeezed Tyrion's hand gently. "It's a smart idea."

Tyrion lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to her fingertips.

* * *

By the time he and Sansa made it back to their chambers, Tyrion was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and fall into a deep sleep. Unfortunately he knew that he would not. He never fell asleep before Sansa-never allowed himself to. Instead he tells her stories every night, stories he'd heard from his nanny when he was a boy. He didn't read them, though he held a book in his hands and turned the pages every once in a while. He didn't need to read them: He knows all the stories by heart. Pretending to read is a game he plays, like pretending to sleep beside her each night when the truth is that he works from bed each night, lying down beside her and keeping his breathing evening so she will believe the charade. He sleeps during the day when she is out. He fears truly falling asleep beside her: He fears that she will wake to find herself nestled in her arms and any trust that has built between the two of them will crumble like the walls of Winterfell.

Tyrion selected a nightshirt from his wardrobe, ready to play the charade once more. As he stepped behind his privacy curtain, Sansa reached out to him, stilling him with her fingertips. Tyrion frowned, giving her a questioning look.

"May I?" Sansa touched the bottom of his tunic.

"My lady?"

"You said you won't touch me until I want you to," Sansa reminded him.

Tyrion could feel his heart quickening. "I did..."

Sansa worried her lower lip with her teeth. She said, "I don't know if I'll ever..."

The words stung, despite the fact that she didn't finish them.

"I don't." Sansa breathed out slowly. "Sorry. I'm nervous. I just... I don't know that I'll ever make it that far if I don't dare to look at you. Or have you look at me."

She was clearly terrified. Tyrion smiled gently at her. "Baby steps, my lady. You can bear to look me in the eyes now-that's better than a month ago."

Sansa blushed. She knelt in front of him so that they were at a level. "Please, my L-Tyrion. I wish... I wish to look upon my husband."

Tyrion doubted that very much, and because he doubted it, he didn't want her to look at him. He knew what she'd find: An imp with bowed legs and disproportionate body parts. He didn't know if he could stand to see her try to mask her face from him-to see the mask she would wear to hide her disgust, or, worse, pity.

Sansa didn't wait for his response. She reached up and carefully undid the top button on his tunic. Tyrion held himself stiffly as she worked her way down his tunic, undoing button after button before tugging the shirt carefully away from his shoulders. He stood in front of her in just his undershirt and trousers. He watched as Sansa took a breath before grabbing the hem of his shirt and lifting it up over his head.

She didn't drop the shirt on the floor as he would have. She folded it, carefully, her hands and eyes focused on the task. Tyrion knew that she was doing it to avoid having to look at him, and it did nothing to help his ego. When she finished folding it she set it gently on the floor before lifting her eyes.

Tyrion watched her face as her eyes roved up his pale body, taking in everything from the scars on his arms to the wispy hairs on his barrel chest. Her expression gave nothing away. Her hand rose, and her fingertips touched lightly against a crescent-shaped scar on his shoulder.

Tyrion swallowed. "I got it when I was seven. Cersei was angry with me-I don't remember what about-and she hit me with a poker from the fire."

Sansa's eyes darkened. Her fingertips trailed away from that scar to another, larger, on his chest. She looked at him questioningly.

"On the way to the Eyrie, where I was tried for your brother, Bran's, fall. Your mother and I were fallen upon by tribes people."

Sansa stared at the scar for a long moment, and then she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his skin, the kiss feather-light. Tyrion closed his eyes. It was all he could do not to let out a moan at the contact.

It was gone quickly. Sansa sat back on her heels. She reached for a night shirt and handed it to him, watching as he pulled it over his head before removing his trousers. Without at word, Tyrion walked past her towards the bed they were supposed to share. He climbed into it, not offering to take her clothes from her. She wasn't ready, he knew, even if she was determined to do her duty.


	10. I See Fire

**A/N: Please review. Also-side note-if people are fanvid or fan art makers and wanna make some stuff for the story, I'd die. Just... die. 3**

 **I See Fire - Ed Sheeran**

 _And if the night is burning I will cover my eyes._

 _For if the dark returns then my brothers will de._

 _And as the sky is falling down_

 _it crashed into the lonely town_

 _and with that shadow upon the ground_

 _I hear my people screaming out._

December 9, 299

Sansa sprang from her bed on the morning they were to leave King's Landing, her eyes as bright and excited as Tyrion had ever seen them. It reminded him a bit of the girl she had been when she was first betrothed to Joffrey. He rose more slowly, stretching carefully. He'd actually fallen asleep last night, the book he was reading sinking onto his chest. His fears about accosting the girl in the night had not come true, thankfully, and he rubbed at the back of his neck musing that it was the first normal night's sleep he'd had since they were wed.

"I've never been West before," Sansa told him absently as she combed her long red hair.

"Not much different than East." Tyrion pulled on the one tunic Sansa had not packed with the rest of his things. "Sea's on the opposite side."

"Very helpful." Sansa rolled her eyes.

"You'll see it for yourself in a few weeks," Tyrion told her.

Sansa pouted at her reflection and pinched her cheeks lightly to give them color. "Do you miss it?"

Tyrion thought about the question for a moment. He said, "I suppose I do-some, anyway. I miss having a suite to myself. This room has always felt small, even for a dwarf."

" _You_ might not take up much room," Sansa said, "but you have more books than anyone I know, and they take room."

"Books are important." Tyrion shrugged.

Adelaide came into the room with a tray of breakfast for the two of them. She dropped the food onto the table and slipped out again without a word to either of them. Tyrion sighed, staring after her. He wished the damned Lannister name didn't make him seem like such a formidable opponent to so many people; it was tiring.

* * *

It was barely dawn when their caravan started its slow progress away from King's Landing. Sansa was on her knees in the carriage, watching through the back window as her prison of two years faded from sight. Only when the sun was high and the Red Keep was a mere dot on the horizon did she allow Tyrion to pull her down into a more appropriate sitting position in the carriage.

"You seem happy," Tyrion commented, handing her a flagon of water.

Sansa smiled gently. "I never thought this day would come."

The river was to their left when they stopped for camp. The few guards that had been spared for their journey took the horses to water while Bronn showed Podrick how to start a fire. Sansa sat in the grass, Tyrion beside her, and stared at the snapping flames until they withered and the moon was high, at which point Tyrion stood, tugging gently on her hand to encourage her to do the same.

They had a tent to themselves, a luxury Sansa hadn't had the last time she travelled the King's road. Blankets had been laid out for them to make a small bed on the ground. It was a tighter fit than their bed in King's Landing, and Sansa found herself shoulder to shoulder with Tyrion. She could barely move without risking herself to the cold, and any time her skin would slip beneath the blankets her teeth would chatter.

Tyrion frowned and rolled onto one side. He looked at her carefully for a moment and then draped one arm, carefully, across her middle. Sansa stilled at the contact, and then she relaxed. His body was warm against hers, and with Tyrion so close there was more give to the blankets than before. She fell asleep with her hand tangled in his curls.

* * *

December 20, 299

Sansa was bored in the carriage on the Gold Road-board, aching, and tired of smelling like dirt and grime. According to Tyrion they were supposed to reach the Deep Den soon, the home of House Lydden. Sansa couldn't wait. She'd never met the Lyddens, and for all she knew they might be more horrid than the Lannisters left in King's Landing, but just now she didn't care. She wanted a bath more than anything in the world.

She had decided that she hated traveling by carriage. She missed having a proper bed, a proper bath, and a proper dinner. There were even days when she thought longingly of King's Landing, despite the horrors there. From the Deep Den it would be another week before they reached Casterly Rock, and she wasn't sure if she could make it that long. Her bones ached.

The only upside to their travels were that they forced her into close quarters with Tyrion on a far more regular basis than at home. Sansa wouldn't have thought it was a good thing, but it turned out that it was. It forced them to talk. She'd told him a few stories of her childhood in Winterfell, and he had returned it with scandalous stories from all over the realm. To hear him talk, he'd drank in every Tavern in the seven kingdoms. His stories made her laugh, and at night he held her close and kept her warm. Sansa could almost imagine what it might be like to be with him forever. She could almost imagine that it wouldn't be terrible.

* * *

The Den came into view just as the sun began to burn low on the horizon. Sansa breathed out a sigh of relief, glad that they would not be spending another night on the cold ground. Tyrion smiled, squeezing her hand gently.

"How are the Lyddens?" Sansa asked. She hadn't dared to ask before now, afraid of the answer, but as the doors to the Deep Den drew nearer she couldn't help but ask.

"Very accommodating." Tyrion inclined his head. "And very loyal to the Lannisters."

Sansa smiled weakly at the news. "Lucky I'm a Lannister, then, huh?"

Tyrion chuckled and kissed her fingertips. "You'll be fine, my lady."

They had barely hobbled their horses when Anders Lydden approached them. He was a thin, wrinkled man with long wisps of grey hair protruding from his ears. He bowed to Tyrion and then said, "My lord? News from the capital."

Tyrion frowned. Joffrey wasn't due to be wed for weeks yet. He doubted any other news from the capital was good. His wife stood beside him, her back straight. Tyrion sighed and nodded for Anders to continue.

Anders cleared his throat. "The war is won."

Sansa sucked air in sharply.

Tyrion gave her a warning look and touched her wrist ever so slightly. "And how was it won?"

"Robb Stark's army was killed," Anders said. "Walder Frey had them killed at the wedding between Edmure Tully and one of his daughters... They're calling it the Red Wedding."

Tyrion barely dared look at his wife. He was sure that the news must be hitting her hard, but unfortunately this was not a safe place for her to grieve. He said, "And Robb?"

"Killed," Anders said. "His mother as well."

The hand that rested on Sansa's wrist could feel that she was shaking. Tyrion wanted to pull her into her arms, but he dared not. Joffrey had won the war, and by all rights they should be celebrating.

Anders was not so kind. He said to Sansa, "Are you all right, my lady?"

"Quite." Sansa's voice was cool and controlled, though Tyrion could tell it was tight as a bowstring. She said, "My brother and mother were traitors. It is right they are dead. Long live King Joffrey, the one true king."

"Long live the king." Anders smiled broadly.

Tyrion said, "I'm sure you'll be celebrating this night, but I think we'll save our celebrations until we're home to Casterly Rock. It's been a long trip, as you can imagine."

"Of course," Anders said. "I'll have Lysette bring you to your rooms."

* * *

Tyrion kept hold of Sansa's hand as they followed Anders' maid into the den and up a set of winding stairs to the guest room on the top floor. He was afraid that if he did not she would lose her way. Her blue eyes were fogged over, and he doubted she could see where she was going.

Still, it wasn't until they were in the rooms, the door closed and barred behind them, they he dared address her. His voice was quiet as he broached, "My lady?"

"Don't." Sansa pulled her hand away from his. Her lower lip trembled, and then the floodgates opened. She sank to her knees, burying her face in her hands.

"I'm sorry," Tyrion whispered. He touched a hand to her face. "Truly."

Sansa recoiled from him as if he had struck her. "Don't touch me!"

Tyrion stepped back from her, hands in the air so she could see that he would not. He said, "Please, lady."

Sansa sobbed openly, and without leave to go near her, Tyrion could do little but watch as the grief wracked her young body. When the tears ceased falling they left her face stained with streaks of dirt and her skin red and blotchy.

Tyrion called for Adelaide to draw her a bath. He didn't dare leave the room while she took it, having already told Anders that they were both retiring for the night, but he climbed into bed and closed the canopy to give her some privacy. He could hear the water splashing for some time, and then he heard her get out and change, but she did not come to bed.

* * *

Sansa sank into the bath Adelaide had drawn her, feeling numb all over. She was an orphan. Her father first, now her mother and brother. Bran and Rickon had been missing for months. Arya had been missing for _years_. For all Sansa knew, she was the only Stark remaining. And she wasn't even a Stark any more-she was a Lannister.

The thought made her cold despite the chill of the water. She pulled her hair down, setting her combs on the floor beside her bath before sinking her head beneath the water. Dirt fell away from her, staining her bath black. Sansa stared at its murky depths. She felt nothing.

It wasn't until the water became truly cold around her that she stood and stepped out. Drying herself with a towel was done on auto-pilot, as was pulling on a night shirt. She stooped to pick up the combs she had left on the floor. Her fingertips touched upon a black comb that was heavier than the others. She stared at it for a long moment, and then her eyes rose to the bed where her Lord husband likely waited for her.

He wouldn't leave the bed. She felt almost sure of it-he was giving her space, trying to be polite. She wouldn't be away from bed long, anyway. She just needed to do it once-maybe twice. Just until she was certain she could feel again.

Sansa curled up in a corner of the room, her legs exposed beneath her night shirt. She pulled the hem higher until her thigh was exposed. Carefully she unsheathed the tiny blade from her comb, and then she pressed it against the white flesh, drawing a straight line that bubbled red. Sansa stared at it, fascinated by the sharpness of the color. Anders had said they called it the red wedding. She drew another line, parallel to the first. Had Robb bled so cleanly? Had her mother? And still she couldn't feel anything. She pressed harder on the next pass, and the blade sank deeper into her skin.

* * *

Tyrion woke suddenly to a voice calling his name. He sat up and found himself staring at the backs of curtains that were unfamiliar to him.

"Lord Tyrion!" The voice called again, sharp and urgent. "Quickly!"

Tyrion pushed aside the bed curtains. A lantern burned on the table in the center of the room. Adelaide was in a corner, crouched over something. He slid out of bed, his feet touching the floor silently, and started towards her. It was a few steps before he realized that the thing she was crouched over was his wife.

Tyrion sprinted forward, dropping to his knees in front of the girl. Her eyelids fluttered, barely retaining consciousness. The comb he'd given her for her fourteenth name day was held loosely in one hand, stained with blood. Adelaide, he realized, had her apron pressed against Sansa's leg. The apron was dark with blood-more blood than Tyrion could think a reasonable result of that little blade.

"No," he whispered. "My lady, _no_."

"I need you to hold this." Adelaide's voice was sharp and commanding, more confident than he'd ever heard before.

Tyrion stared at her blankly.

"Place your hands where mine are," Adelaide commanded him. "And push down."

Tyrion did as instructed, and then Adelaide stood and left. As he pressed the apron down against the blood, he stared at the flickering eyes of his bride.

Sansa stirred, her glassy eyes focusing for a moment on Tyrion's face. She whispered, "I just wanted to feel something..."

Tyrion shook his head, not understanding. Clearly she felt a great deal to have cut into her own skin as she had.

Adelaide returned a moment later, sewing kit in hand. She looked at Tyrion. "I assume you have alcohol?"

"In my bag," he said dully.

He felt rather than saw her step away. When she returned, she waved him off. Tyrion stumbled backwards, crouching to the left of his fading wife. Adelaide lifted the apron away from Sansa's leg and poured alcohol onto the blood there. Sansa's eyes widened in pain and she let out a gasp. Tyrion squeezed her hand gently, his eyes transfixed on her leg. Four straight, parallel lines had been cut into her thigh. The first two were thin-scratches, really. The third was deeper. The fourth... The fourth was reason to fear for his wife.

Adelaide worked with deft hands, threading a needle and slipping it into Sansa's pale skin without a word. Tyrion's grip on Sansa's hand tightened as he watched, but Sansa let out no more noise as she was neatly stitched.

When the stitching was done Adelaide sat back. For a long moment the room was silent.

"Thank you," Tyrion whispered to the maid.

"Hm." Adelaide would not look him in the eye.

"I didn't know she..." Tyrion shook his head. "I thought she just wanted some space to be alone."

Adelaide sighed. She gathered the bloodied apron in her arms, carried it to the fireplace, and dropped it in. The fabric smoked on impact. Her back to Tyrion she said, "She's done it before."

"What?" Tyrion's voice was sharp.

"I came upon her once." Adelaide's voice was quiet.

"You didn't tell me."

"I'm not your maid." Adelaide spun, her arms wrapping around her waist. Her dark eyes looked haunted. "You told me when you hired me that I was for _Lady_ _Sansa_. You were very clear in that regard. You told me, specifically, that I should keep her confidences-that you didn't want a spy."

He had said those words. At the time, he was doing everything he could to gain Sansa's trust, and he didn't want to fall into the trap of using her handmaiden against her, knowing that if she found out about it she wouldn't trust either of them.

"I thought it was handled," Adelaide said. "She was using a needle last time I saw her, not the knife. I thought when she realized I saw, she'd..."

Tyrion sighed. It was hard for any handmaiden to question her own mistress, and Adelaide had just begun the line of work-Sansa was her first mistress.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Tyrion shook his head. He didn't blame the girl. He sighed, looking at Sansa, who was clearly not ready to stand. "Thank you, Adelaide. That will be enough for tonight. Please send Podrick to me."

"Yes, my Lord." Adelaide curtsied and hastened from the room.

Tyrion stayed crouched, his hand gripping Sansa's. In a small voice he whispered, "My lady, what am I going to do with you?"

Sansa swallowed thickly. "I'm sorry."

"Shh." Tyrion ran his thumb across the back of her hand.

It was long moments before Podrick arrived, his hair mussed from sleep and his expression confused. When he saw Sansa on the floor his eyes widened. He took a step backwards out of instinct and then froze. "My Lord?"

"Help me lift her onto the bed," Tyrion said tiredly.

Podrick scrambled forward. Between the two of them they were able to lift her body and carry her onto the bed. She whimpered as they lowered her onto it. Tyrion shushed her, brushing her forehead with her fingertips.

"What happened, sir?" Podrick asked.

It was a natural question, but though Tyrion knew Podrick would never betray his confidence, he was wary of answering. This was a private matter. It was between him and his wife. Rather than answer directly, Tyrion merely said, "She'll need some looking after in the coming weeks, Pod."

"Yes, sir."

Tyrion nodded. "That will be all, Pod. Thank you."

Podrick bowed and left the room, closing the door carefully behind him. Only when he was gone did Tyrion climb into bed behind his wife. He wrapped his arm around her stomach as he had done in camp the past few weeks. When she whimpered and began to stir, Tyrion shushed her gently and carded her hair. A small sigh escaped her lips and she settled.


	11. Perfect

**A/N: Please review**

 **Perfect - Hedley**

 _And as long as I can feel you holding on_

 _I won't fall, even if you said I was wrong._

 _I'm not perfect, but I keep trying_

 _'cause that's what I said I would do from the start._

 _I'm not alive if I'm lonely_

 _so please don't leave me._

 _Was it something I said or just my personality?_

December 21, 299

Sansa woke feeling almost drugged. There was a weight around her middle which made it hard to move. Her head felt heavy, and she struggled to open her eyes. When she did it was to find herself staring at an unfamiliar room. Her leg ached. It was long moments before she remembered the night before, and when she did it came in waves. Robb and her mother were dead. Joffrey had won the war. She'd held the comb in her hand...

Sansa swallowed. She was in bed now, and it was Tyrion's arm draped across her protectively, holding her in place. _He knew_. She was chilled at the thought. She shifted, trying to slip from beneath his arm without waking him.

"Where are you going?" Tyrion's voice was thick with sleep, but it was alert.

"The privy," Sansa said. She didn't even know where the privy was in this place, but she couldn't stand another moment trapped beneath his arm.

"Hold on." Tyrion pushed himself up. "I'll escort you."

"To the privy?" She stared at him in disbelief.

Anger flashed across his scarred face. " _Yes,_ to the privy. After last night I'll escort you to the damn bathhouses if necessary."

His anger surprised her. She felt her cheeks flush hot. "How will that look to the Lyddens?"

"Better than it would have looked had they been the ones to find you last night." Tyrion's voice was clipped.

"Oh, for the sake of all that is good!"

"You didn't see it!" Tyrion shouted.

Sansa flinched at his tone.

Tyrion sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. In a quieter voice he said, "You were so _pale_ , Sansa. I thought you were dying."

Sansa shook her head. "I wasn't dying..."

"You lost a lot of blood," Tyrion said. "And that's excluding the risk of infection which still remains."

Sansa pressed her lips together and looked away.

Tyrion sighed. "If you can wait until your handmaiden arrives, _she_ can escort you. But you will have an escort at all times until I'm sure you're safe."

Sansa shook her head. "No."

Tyrion glared at her, his expression unwavering.

"You said you didn't want to be my jailor," Sansa hissed at him.

"I _don't_ ," Tyrion said. "But if my choices are to jail you or let you kill yourself I would much prefer the cell."

"I'm not going to kill myself!"

"You almost did last night!" Tyrion's hand slammed against the bedpost. "Damn it, Sansa!"

Sansa's lower lip wavered. "You'd have been better if I had. It'd get you out of this marriage."

"Don't." Tyrion's voice was soft. He stepped closer to her.

Sansa stepped away. She wouldn't look at him.

Tyrion stilled. He said, "My lady, I am your _husband_. Let me help you."

"How can you help me?" Sansa's voice was cold.

"I don't know," Tyrion admitted honestly. "I can try."

Sansa shook her head. She whispered, "I can't close my eyes without seeing their faces."

Tyrion was silent.

"Last night," she said. "I just... I felt so numb. I was afraid I'd never feel anything ever again."

"And the knife helped?" Tyrion asked.

Sansa inclined her head.

"You can't do that again," Tyrion told her.

She stared at the floor, her red hair falling around her face.

"Next time you feel like that," Tyrion said, "I want you to come to me."

"What will you do?" Sansa's voice was thick with an unspoken challenge.

Tyrion shook his head. "I'm not sure. But we'll figure it out- _together_."

Sansa's eyes were hooded.

"I swore to protect you," Tyrion reminded her.

"Your family killed mine," Sansa told him. "Can you protect me from that?"

Tyrion's face twisted. "What happened to your family was a terrible crime. I didn't know your brother. He seemed like a good man, but I didn't know him. Your mother, on the other hand... I admired her."

Sansa looked at him in surprise.

"She wanted to have me executed," Tyrion admitted, "but I admired her. She was a _strong_ woman. And she was fierce when it came to protecting her children."

Tears glistened in Sansa's eyes.

"Sansa," he said, "your mother would want you to carry on. You know it's true."

Sansa sighed. She whispered, "I just feel so _tired."_

"I know." Tyrion's voice was sympathetic. "I want to help you, Sansa."

The door opened before she could reply and Adelaide stepped in. She was as quiet as she had always been, but there was a confidence in her step that had been previously missing.

"Adelaide." Tyrion bowed to her. "Please escort Lady Sansa to the privy."

"Yes, my Lord." Adelaide turned, looking to Sansa expectantly. And with a heavy sigh, Sansa let herself be swept away.

Tyrion had said almost nothing to Sansa since their conversation that morning. He'd been engrossed in a book, leaving her to brood on her own. On her own, but not alone. He followed her almost everywhere, and when it wasn't him it was one of his lackeys-Podrick, Bronn, or Adelaide. By the time the caravan stopped to make camp at the base of a knoll, Sansa hated every last one of them.

"Rabbit or bear for dinner?" Adelaide asked, standing just inside the door to the tent Sansa and Tyrion were sharing.

Sansa shook her head. "I'm not hungry."

Adelaide pursed her lips. "You need to eat."

"I'm not hungry," Sansa repeated.

Tyrion, seated across from Sansa at the table, lowered the book he was reading. "My lady, you _do_ need to eat."

"I don't _want_ to eat." Sansa felt itchy. She scratched at her arm with her fingernails, leaving red marks on her pale flesh.

Tyrion's hand reached out, stilling her movements. He looked past her to Adelaide. "Rabbit for both of us. Thank you."

Sansa waited for Adelaide to leave before pulling her hands away from Tyrion's. "I told you I wasn't hungry."

"You've hardly eaten all day," Tyrion said.

"Are you going to tell me when to pee next?"

Tyrion flushed. He said, "If you're fool enough to refuse to do it on your own!"

"You're impossible!" Sansa snapped.

"I thought the very same about you."

The flap opened and Adelaide stepped in carrying two plates of hot rabbit. She set them in front of Sansa and Tyrion before scurrying from the tent again, seeming to sense the tension in the air.

Tyrion gave Sansa an expectant look. Sansa returned it with her own look, a look of challenge. What _would_ he do if she refused to eat? Her freedom had already been stripped away from her, and he'd promised he wouldn't hurt her-a promise she believed. He had little recourse left to him.

Tyrion sighed. In a tight voice he whispered, "Please."

Sansa looked away, feeling shame heat her face. He had spent the night cleaning up after her... She took a careful forkful of rabbit. It tasted of ash, but she forced herself to chew it and swallow it, letting it lay like a leaden weight at the base of her stomach.


	12. Iridescent

**A/N: The moment we've all been waiting for? It's not exactly a fairy tale for our two heroes. It just is. Please review :)**

 **Iridescent - Gavin Mikhail**

 _You were standing in the wake of devastaton._

 _You were waiting on the edge of the unknown._

 _And with the cataclysm raining down,_

 _insides crying "save me now!"_

 _you were there, impossibly alone._

 _Do you feel cold and lost in desperation?_

 _You build up hope, but failure's all you've known._

 _Remember all the sadness and frustration,_

 _and let it go._

December 22, 299

Tyrion had taken Podrick's horse so that he could ride at the front of the caravan beside Bronn. Adelaide sat in the carriage with Sansa, and Podrick walked beside the carriage with strict instructions to interfere if necessary. It gave Tyrion the opportunity to talk to Bronn, a man whose opinion he trusted. They spoke in low tones at the front of the caravan, far ahead of the guards. Tyrion had told Bronn of the past couple evenings, and Bronn listened carefully.

"It sounds like she could use a sound spanking," Bronn muttered when Tyrion had finished talking.

"Bronn!"

"It _does_ ," Bronn said. "It's a safer way for her to get the pain she says she needs. Plus it does _wonders_ on a woman's attitude."

"She's _grieving_."

"Half the world is grieving," Bronn said. "We're in the middle of a war."

Tyrion shook his head. "I promised her I wouldn't hurt her."

"I didn't say you should beat her," Bronn said. "Children are spanked by their fathers every day."

"I'm not her father," Tyrion pointed out.

"And if you were?"

Tyrion scowled.

"It's not like you're properly her _lover_ ," Bronn pointed out. "You may as well act as a father to her. Clearly _someone_ needs to."

"Stop," Tyrion said.

Bronn rolled his eyes. "Well, what the hell were you hoping I'd say?"

"I don't know," Tyrion muttered. He took a swig from the flask of ale attached to his hip and urged his horse faster, ahead of the caravan.

That night Sansa ate dinner without complaint, but she did it slowly, wordlessly. Across from her, Tyrion wondered that a few short nights ago they had engaged in pleasant conversations like proper husband and wife. Now they sat as jailor and jailed. He hated it.

Tyrion cleared his throat. "How was your day."

Sansa's eyes were like glass. "Very good, my Lord."

Tyrion winced, closing his eyes. Her speech had taken on the same meaningless timbre it'd had in King's Landing. He couldn't stand for her to talk like that, but he didn't know how to make her stop.

* * *

December 29, 299

She was drifting. In the week since she'd heard about her family's fate, she had lost herself entirely. Every day she would rise with Tyrion, climb into the carriage, and sit perfectly still until the caravan stopped. She ate her meals without comment, and at night she crawled into bed with him, though she did not sleep. Every time she closed her eyes she pictured them-Robb with his direwolf's head stitched to his body, and her mother bleeding out on the floor. She felt cold, always.

Cutting would help, she knew. If she could just get that bit of pain, she was sure that she could reawaken. But Tyrion had been true to his word, and the few times he was not by her side she was guarded by someone else from his vanguard.

They came to Casterly Rock at noon. It was a formidable fortress-larger than Winterfell, and nestled between the mountains and the sea. In her mind Sansa knew it was a gorgeous place, but she could not bring herself to care. It felt as if she saw only a picture of the castle, dulled with age in some gallery somewhere.

She felt Tyrion's eyes on her and heard him sigh. They rode to the front gates. Sansa barely noticed as Tyrion greeted the castle guards or as the caravan was ushered inside. She felt Tyrion take her arm and guide her from the carriage, but it barely registered.

"Lady Sansa and I have had a long journey." Tyrion's voice was clipped as he spoke to the head servant of the castle. "We'll be retiring to our chambers. I want the entire wing cleared for the rest of the afternoon."

"Yes, my Lord," the man said.

Tyrion continued to lead her by the arm, through large, looming doors, down formidable stone corridors, and up winding flights of stairs. Sansa did not try to remember the route. She didn't care. She was only glad that he had asked for the afternoon. She planned to spend it sleeping.

Eventually he opened the door to a suite of rooms in the Lannister colors. Some part of Sansa's brain registered that it was a grand room-a room for a true lord and lady. The rest of her brain didn't care.

Tyrion sat Sansa at a small table. He sat himself across from her, and he poured them each a glass of wine. Sansa took hers out of habit, not because she actually cared to drink.

"I need to talk to you," Tyrion told her.

Sansa blinked at him, unseeing.

"The night you hurt yourself," Tyrion said. "You told me you just wanted to feel something again."

Sansa pressed her lips together. Those words rang true in her head.

"I promised you when I took you as my wife that I would not hurt you," Tyrion said. "I'm afraid that by treating you the way I have this past week, I have inadvertently hurt you a great deal. I have forced you to feel that nothingness you were trying to avoid."

Sansa stared at him, not comprehending for a moment. When his words registered through her foggy brain she said, "Do you mean to give my comb back, then?"

Tyrion snorted humorlessly. "No."

Sansa frowned.

"I gave you that comb to protect yourself," Tyrion told her. "Although the irony is not lost on me, I won't give it back until I'm sure its presence won't prevent the occurrence of your next name day."

Sansa shook her head, trying to clear it. He was stringing too many words together, and the meaning felt unclear. "What do you mean, then."

Tyrion cleared his throat. "I... This is _awkward_."

Sansa stared at him.

Tyrion sighed. "You know I've been with women before?"

Sansa nodded, though she wasn't sure where this conversation could possibly be heading.

"I try to _please_ women," Tyrion told her. "I'm careful about it-I'm never just after my own pleasure."

Sansa licked her lower lip.

"I was a young man when I realized that what pleases some women does nothing at all for other women," Tyrion said. "And some things that seemed like they should not please women were exactly what the women wanted."

"Tyrion," Sansa said. "I have no idea what you're saying."

"Of course you don't." Tyrion sighed. He dragged a hand through his hair. "Sansa. There are ways for you to achieve the... _pain_... without blood leaving your body. Ways that I can help you with."

Sansa's eyes widened. She pushed the chair back from the table. "You want to beat me?"

"No!" Tyrion's voice was sharp.

Sansa stared at him, her eyes a challenge.

Tyrion tugged at the collar of his tunic. "Some women, er, _enjoy,_ being spanked."

"Spanked." She said the word flatly.

Tyrion shook his head. "I told you I would never hurt you, my Lady. I have no _desire_ to hurt you-you must believe me. As I said, some women enjoy being spanked. I only thought... Well, you're young, and you might not know what you like. And you said it was hard for you to feel..."

Sansa swallowed. He was speaking complete madness, she was sure, and yet... Margaery had mentioned that women were complicated. And she'd also said that many women didn't know what they wanted until they experienced it. She remembered the hot pain when the knife would touch her skin and the absolute relief she felt by the time it was done. And slowly, without really knowing she was doing it, she found herself nodding her head.

* * *

Tyrion watched, completely baffled, as her head bobbed up and down. The faraway look was still in her eyes. Tyrion's heart hammered in his chest. He hadn't actually expected her to consent to it, and now that she had, he didn't know what to do. He'd only made the request because she had been distant for so long. Bronn's words had rattled around in his head, and at a loss of what else to do, Tyrion had offered it.

The truth was that, pervert though he was said to be, Tyrion had never spanked a woman. Oh, he understood the idea of it. It had just never struck him as something that he particularly wanted to do. He'd always been more interested in giving pleasure.

Sansa lifted her chin. In a quiet voice she said, "I don't... I don't know what you want me to do. I've never..."

Tyrion nodded. He needed to lead here. He had to be sure of himself, and clear with his intentions. After what she'd suffered from Joffrey, it was important that he draw the boundaries clearly for both of them.

"I'm going to smack your bottom," Tyrion said, speaking with more confidence than he said. "With my _hand_."

Sansa nodded shakily.

Tyrion swallowed. "Okay. Stand then, and walk over to the bed."

* * *

Sansa was afraid. She'd received a few spankings from her father as a child, but nothing like this. This was the _imp_ , a Lannister... Her husband. She stood, pushing away from the table, and walked over to the bed.

"Lean over." Tyrion's voice was a ship, guiding her movements. "Stretch out and grab the other side of the bed with your hands."

Sansa did as she was bid. Stretched out across the bed she felt utterly ridiculous. Heat touched her face, and she thought that it might be embarrassment alone that pulled her from the stupor she'd been in the past few days. She could hear Tyrion bolting the door and moving behind her, and then she felt his hands touching her dress and lifting it. Sansa froze as he tucked the dress around her stomach, leaving her naked rear on display. Shame stung at her eyes. He hadn't seen her body before, and now she was mooning him, prostrate on the bed and vulnerable.

Tyrion placed a hand gently on her rear. Sansa sucked in a breath of air at the contact, her eyes closing.

"If you want me to stop, I will," Tyrion said. "You only have to say the word."

Sansa swallowed. "No. I... It's fine."

* * *

Tyrion stared at his wife's pale mounds wondering if he actually had the nerve to go through with this. Sansa was the single most innocent woman he'd ever encountered. He'd never seen her undress, though she had helped him with his clothes most nights since the first. Now he looked at his small hand against her pale cheeks, and he wondered at what he'd gotten himself into.

He said, "If you want me to stop, I will. You only have to say the word." And in truth, part of him hoped she would say for him to stop.

Her voice came, tightly wound. "No. I... It's fine."

There was nothing more to be done. Tyrion lifted his hand and, before he could lose his nerve, he lowered it again, hard, against her left cheek. There was a cracking sound and Sansa sucked in a breath of air. As he pulled his hand back he saw a pale pink print on her alabaster skin. It faded in front of his eyes, and he swung his hand down again, landing a second smack to her right cheek.

Again and again he raised and lowered his hand. The sound was sharp, echoing in the small room. Each time, Sansa would let out a small gasp. Each time he watched as her hands tightened against the coverlet and then released. Her pale skin grew pink all over, and then red. His hand stung. He wasn't sure if it was working, or when he was supposed to stop. Again and again he raised and lowered his hand until a small, tight voice choked out, "Stop!"

Tyrion's hand dropped immediately to his side. He stared at her, uncertainty racing through his veins.

Sansa's hands released the coverlet. She rolled around to face him, and he saw tears hot on her cheeks.

"My lady," he whispered. "I-"

"Please," she returned.

Tyrion stared at her, unsure of her intent.

Sansa leaned forward. Nervousness shone bright in her eyes as she reached a hand out and touched the jagged scar across his face. She bit her lower lip gently, trailing the scar with her fingertips. And then she pulled him close and pressed her lips against his.

Tyrion couldn't help the moan that escaped his lips. Her kiss was soft and gentle. Tyrion widened his mouth and brushed his tongue against her lower lip. Her eyes closed and her left hand rose to tangle in Tyrion's hair. She pulled him to her, and he let himself be pulled.

They lay next to each other on the bed, exploring each other's kisses. And then Sansa pulled back and tugged on the bottom of his shirt.

"My Lady..." He bit the words out, need filling him.

"Please," Sansa whispered. "I just want to feel good for a little while."

Tyrion allowed her to disrobe him, and watched her expression as she took in his body. She did not pull away in revulsion. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp on the front of her own dress. Tyrion had never paid her a cent, and she fought to undress for him.

Tyrion helped her out of her dress. For the first time he took in his wife's body. With the dress away from her it was easier to make out her outline. Her hips were broad, her chest small. Her stomach drooped a little, signs of a childhood full of hearty meals. Like Tyrion, she had scars across her chest and back. He didn't need to ask where she'd gotten them; his nephew was the obvious culprit. Tyrion leaned forward and kissed them one by one.

* * *

Sansa stilled as Tyrion kissed her scars. She felt nervous in front of him, her body exposed so obviously. He'd been with so many women. How could she hope to compare, with her scarred body and lack of knowledge?

Tyrion's kisses trailed down her body, from her jaw to her neck and then her breasts. He took time with each of her breasts, trailing his kisses along the lines and then taking first one nipple, then the other, into his mouth. She closed her eyes, feeling the hot of his mouth as it sucked on her left nipple. His teeth gripped it was it hardened and he nipped ever so lightly.

A moan escaped, unbidden, from Sansa's lips. "Please..."

Tyrion released the nipple. His kisses continued down her stomach. She sucked in a breath of air as the whiskers of his beard scraped her bellybutton. His kissed continued lower, until she was sure he was going to kiss her _there,_ and then he didn't. He skipped over that area, pressing kisses to her legs instead, to the healing wounds on her thigh, to her knees...

"Tyrion," Sansa groaned.

He moved his kissed back up her legs. At the tops of his thighs he changed from kissing to sucking, his tongue drawing slow circles on her skin. Sansa's hips rose of their own accord. She hissed in frustration, her fingers gripping the covers.

Amusement shone in his mismatched eyes. He moved then, his lips moving to her sex. He kissed her, and Sansa let out a low, keening sound. She heard him chuckle, and then his tongue snaked out and ran between her two lips.

"Tyrion!" She pushed herself up on her elbows, surprised at the intensity of the sensation.

Tyrion kept on, licking and sucking. And then his tongue pushed and it was inside of her, warm, filling her from the inside.

Sansa's arms gave out and she sank back onto the bed, whispering a steady chant of, "Tyrion, please, Tyrion..."

Tyrion's mouth disappeared, and in its stead she felt something hard and thick. He stilled there, his cock at the base of her cunt, and he placed his thumb gently on her stomach. In a gentle voice he warned, "This will hurt."

Eyes wide, Sansa nodded her understanding.

He pushed forward in one sudden motion. Sansa cried out as her wall broke around him. Tyrion pressed kisses to her stomach, letting her get used to the way he filled her. When she had adjusted to his size, he began to move his hips, his cock in and out in a steady motion. It was less intense than his mouth had been, but Sansa felt her breathing quicken. He pinched a nipple between two of his fingers and Sansa cried out, the feeling of him so intensely pleasurable she almost could not stand it. And then she felt it, filling her from the inside, and she felt his hands tighten on her waist.

Sansa gasped and dropped back against the bed. She felt as if every muscle in her body had relaxed at once. She felt Tyrion extract himself from her, and then he moved to rest beside her, his arm draping across her middle.

"Wow," Sansa whispered. "That was... wow."

Tyrion chuckled gently.

"My mother warned me about the pain," Sansa said. "She never mentioned...everything else."

"I suppose it's indecent to talk about," Tyrion muttered. "There _is_ a reason men go to brothels."

Sansa didn't bother to say that she'd known it was pleasurable for the man. In truth, she wasn't sure how pleasurable that had been for Tyrion. He had been like a God, caressing her and kissing her everywhere she hadn't known she wanted it, while she had lain still and taken it all.

"I'm sorry," Sansa whispered.

Tyrion propped himself on one elbow. "What for?"

"I didn't..." Sansa swallowed. "You.. you know. My whole _body_. And I just sort of..."

He shook his head, not bothering to wait for her to stammer out the words. "Lovemaking is not a game of tit-for-tat, Sansa. It's about doing what feels good."

"I'm pretty sure it's supposed to feel good for you as well," Sansa said. In truth, she was sure it was supposed to be better for him than it was for her. Didn't that align with all the stories she'd heard over the years?

Tyrion snorted. "Trust me. I'm well sated."

Sansa wasn't sure how that could be true, but she felt too good to push the matter. She sighed, resting her cheek against the top of Tyrion's head.

"I didn't hurt you too much, did I?" Tyrion asked. "I tried to be gentle, but it's never entirely pleasant for a lady on the first go."

"I'm okay," Sansa assured him.

"Good." A smile twitched across his face.


	13. Tenerife Sea

**A/N: A light, fluffy chapter for your enjoyment. There will be more death and dreariness in the coming chapters, I'm sure, but I felt like Sansa and Tyrion needed to just be young and happy for a bit.**

 **Tenerife Sea - Ed Sheeran**

 _You look so wonderful in your dress._

 _I love your hair like that-_

 _the way it falls on the side of your neck,_

 _down your shoulders and back._

 _We are surrounded by all of these lies_

 _and people who talk too much._

 _You've got that kind of look in your eyes_

 _as if no one knows anything but us._

 _And should this be the last thing I see,_

 _I want you to know it's enough for me._

December 30, 299

When Sansa opened her eyes it was to darkness. The moon was high in the sky. She was still naked. The dress she had been wearing the day before was puddled on the floor, the hem dirty from the road. Tyrion's clothes were beside hers. She smiled, remembering the afternoon they had enjoyed together. Never in her life had she felt so close with another person. It was hard to believe that person was the Lannister imp.

She rolled onto her side, cupping her head in her hand and staring at him. He twitched as he slept, his brow furrowing, his hand scrambling for purchase against the covers. She frowned, remembering how still he'd lain when they were first wed. He was never like that any more. She wondered if it was because he drank less than he used to. Did ale make people sleep sounder?

Sansa slid from the bed. They hadn't bothered to unpack the night before, and it took a moment for her to locate her luggage. She fished through it before pulling out a pale blue dressing gown, which she wrapped around her shoulders. She padded across the room to the door and carefully lifted the bar.

"Where're you going?" Tyrion asked blearily.

"Bathroom," Sansa said.

Tyrion groaned and pushed himself up. "You're supposed to take Adelaide."

"Adelaide is fast asleep in her own room," Sansa said. "It's the middle of the night."

He stared at her, a protest on his lips.

"I'll be quick," Sansa assured him. "Please?"

Tyrion sighed and inclined his head.

Sansa slipped from their bedchambers to the privy down the hall. Although she had noticed little on her trip to their quarters, the location of the bathroom had stuck. She slipped inside and did her duty quickly. It was a wonder, but for the first time in days she had no desire to hurt herself.

When she returned to their rooms, it was to find Tyrion dressed and stacking items into a basket. She stared at him, perplexed.

Tyrion caught her look. "Considering we've slept the day away, I thought we might spend the evening under the stars."

A smile graced Sansa's lips.

"I remember thinking the stars were beautiful when I was a boy," Tyrion said. "I haven't bothered to look at them in a long time."

"That sounds nice, Tyrion," Sansa said.

* * *

Tyrion led Sansa out the back of the castle. She had the basket in her hands, laden with blankets and food they'd grabbed from the kitchens. Tyrion loved the dark of night when the world was quiet save for the frogs and night birds. In the din of the moon he could see his breath puffing in small clouds in front of him.

He led her to a section of the beach that the smallfolk were blocked from using. The sea stretched out in front of them, dark and brooding, while beneath them the white sand seemed to glow in the moonlight. Tyron stopped, and Sansa stopped beside him.

"Here?" Sansa asked.

Tyrion nodded. He helped Sansa spread a blanket out on the beach, and they set the food they had packed in the basket above where their heads would be. Tyrion selected a sandwich from the basket before throwing himself on his back. The stars were above them, and Tyrion thought that he could not imagine a more perfect night to gaze upon them.

"What do you think the stars are?" Sansa asked.

Tyrion had just taken a mouthful of food when she asked. He chewed it, staring at the stars ponderously. After swallowing his mouthful he said, "The Maesters say different things. Some believe that they are holes punched in the sky so the gods can look down upon us. Others say that the kings of the past are up there. Still others say they are lanterns the gods left to provide light to us each night."

Sansa rolled onto one side and cupped her head in her hand. "Yes. But what do _you_ think."

"Me?" Tyrion frowned, staring at the Great Lion above. "I think they're beautiful."

Sansa laughed and rolled onto her back, her hair fanning out beneath her. "Me, too."

* * *

Sansa couldn't remember a time when she felt as content as she did lying next to Tyrion on the beach, watching the stars and listening to the waves crash against the beach. Tyrion lay so close that she could smell the leftover ink on his fingertips and the ham on his breath. She wanted to touch him, but despite their afternoon of lovemaking she felt shy. He was her husband, and yet she didn't know if he enjoyed having his hands held.

She watched the horizon line turn from black to grey, and then from grey to pink. Tyrion dozed beside her, his chest rising and falling. She rolled onto her side, watching the air puff above him. Her fingertips reached out of their own accord and hovered just above his chest, desperate to feel the beat of his heart, and yet she hesitated.

"My Lady." Tyrion cracked open a single eye to look at her. "I'm not going to slap you for touching me."

Sansa felt herself flush hotly.

Tyrion sighed and pushed himself into a sitting position. He reached up and laced his hand through the one she had hovered above him, squeezing her fingertips gently. "We should be getting back anyway, before-"

Warning bells sounded from Casterly Rock, echoing loudly towards the beach.

"Damn!" Tyrion leapt to his feet, tugging Sansa's hand as he went. "We're _missing_."

"What?"

"Your handmaiden probably tried to bring us breakfast or some such nonsense." Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Hurry now, before they send the guards to fetch us back."

Sansa reached to grab the basket.

"Just leave it!" Tyrion began to jog towards the rock. "We'll send Podrick to get it later."

Laughing, Sansa ran after him. She caught his hand as she reached him, and together they sprinted the distance to Casterly Rock.

* * *

"Do you have any idea how many people are looking for you?" Bronn stood just inside the door to the castle, leaning against a wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

Tyrion, still panting from the run, shrugged. "Everyone but you I take it?"

Bronn scowled. "I knew you'd gone and done something foolish."

"That is what I do." Tyrion glanced sideways at his young bride. She was, he could tell, attempting to look properly chastened, but the pink of her cheeks gave her away. Tyrion added to Bronn, his voice wry, "We are truly sorry for any inconvenience we may have caused."

"I'm sure." Bronn pushed himself away from the wall. "I'll go ring the bells to let them all know you're found."

Tyrion waited until Bronn made it around the corner before laughing. Half a second later Sansa joined in, her laughter a soft, lilting sound.

"I know we shouldn't have worried everyone," Sansa said between breaths. "But it's so nice to be _able_ to. At King's Landing-"

"We'd both have had to deal with more than Bronn." Tyrion smiled. "We're the Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock. This is our domain."

"As long as the servants don't revolt, anyway." Sansa brushed the hair away from her face. Her eyes sparkled with merriment.


	14. The Longer I Run

**A/N: Wow. I've written fanfiction before (under a different username), but I've never gotten so many views so fast. While I'm sure that's more due to the popularity of the fandom than anything else, I'm still overwhelmed by not only the views but the number of people that liked/followed it in one night. (Okay, 5 might not be a lot to everyone else, but I try to keep my standards low). That all being said, I would LOVE some reviews, friends. Even "you suck" reviews. This is my first GOT fanfiction. Am I getting the characters okay?**

 **Also, anyone who knows how to make a dash work properly on this site would have my undying love and affection. I keep putting in two - and it corrects it to one and then when I reread I feel like I look like I don't understand the English language.**

 **What else... Fan art or fan vids would be appreciated. There are NOT enough Sansa/Tyrion vids in this world. I do have a playlist going of the ones I've found, though (there's a random Tommen video in the playlist that I just thoroughly enjoy, but otherwise it's our favorite young couple). The playlist is also under unskilledgamer92 (on youtube). I'm trying to be consistent across platforms. Go me.**

 **And now to the STORY. (Well, to the chapter song. Then to the story).**

 **The Longer I Run - Peter Bradley Adams**

 _When my blood runs warm with the warm red wine_

 _I miss the life that I left behind_

 _But when I hear the sound of the blackbirds cry_

 _I know I left in the nick of time._

 _Well, this road I'm on's gonna turn to sand_

 _and leave me lost in a far-off land,_

 _so let me ride the wind til I don't look back-_

 _forget the life that I almost had._

January 1

"Damn it!"

Tyrion's eyes popped open of their own accord, startled by the outburst. He rolled over to see Sansa sitting upright in bed. Tyrion sighed and scrubbed at his eyes. "Good morning to you, too."

"I'm _flowering_." Sansa had the unique ability to make the word flowering sound like more of a curse than the damn it she'd shouted earlier.

Tyrion frowned, looking at her. He spoke carefully. "I wasn't aware that you were that eager for children."

Sansa looked at him in surprise. "My duty as a lady-"

Tyrion waved the words away. "Yes, yes. We're supposed to produce lots of little Lannisters. Do you actually _want_ children, though? With me?"

Sansa frowned at the covers. "I... I haven't really thought about what it will be like."

Tyrion swung his legs from bed and slid to the floor. "It will happen in its course, I'm sure. But if I were you, I wouldn't go cursing the gods until you're sure they've actually robbed you of something."

Sansa sighed and toyed with the covers. "Do _you_ want children?"

Tyrion was slow to reply. He said, "I do. I actually think I'll rather enjoy fatherhood. But I'm a few years older than you-I've had time to sow my wild oats. I would be neither surprised nor offended if you wanted some time and freedom to do the same before you become Mother first, Sansa second."

Sansa frowned as she pondered his words.

"I need to make sure the bells are set to ring to celebrate the wedding between Joffrey and Margaery," Tyrion said. "I'll have Adelaide bring you the herb milk for your cramps."

"Thank you," Sansa said quietly.

-TSTSTSTS-

Sansa was hiding in the Godswood. The bells had been ringing all day, as was custom when a royal wedding was occurring elsewhere in the kingdom. After the first hour, the sound seemed to echo in her head. She couldn't hear herself think. The Godswood, she had found, were the most insulated place in the entire castle. She could still hear the bells, but they were duller from within the Godswood. Sansa suspected there was some sort of magic surrounding the Weirwood tree to give a person peace while they prayed.

Sansa wasn't praying. She hadn't prayed since the day she heard that her mother and brother were dead. In the weeks since, details of their deaths had trickled to her little by little-her brother's body sewn to the head of his direwolf, his mother's throat sliced through to the bone. They were cruel, gruesome deaths-the sort to keep her up at night.

Tyrion had said that her mother would want her to carry on. Sansa knew that was true. She also knew that her mother would be mortified to learn that Sansa was wed to the Lannister Imp. Her mother had tried to have Tyrion executed. She'd thought he was responsible for Bran's fall. And though Sansa was sure the latter wasn't true, the former gave her pause. Her mother had wanted Tyrion dead, and now Sansa was wed to him, bedding him, contemplating children with him...

She closed her eyes, thinking about that last thing. Did she want children with Tyrion Lannister? Her heart screamed that she did. Her head was less sure. Was she betraying her family if she became mother to Lannisters? Would her siblings-any that were left-hate her for it?

The thoughts made her ache for her comb. Tyrion still hadn't given it back to her, though he had dispensed with the constant guard around her, instead sending different people to check on her at odd times throughout the day.

Sansa sighed, leaning her head back against the tree and closing her eyes.

-TSTSTSTS-

Tyrion was in his study, poring over an accounting ledger. He was no longer master of coin, but financial matters followed him. Now he was in charge of Casterly Rock's finances, and while they were quite good, there were always improvements that could be made. With winter coming they'd have to start taxing the smallfolk less or risk starving their people. Without knowing how long the winter would last, it meant they'd have to cut expenses in other areas as well. Tyrion was wondering how many of his father's guards were corrupt, and of those, how many were so corrupt that he could send them to the wall without fear of retribution.

There was a knock on the door of his study and then Podrick came in, looking nervous. "My lord?"

"Podrick?"

"There's people here to see you, my lord," Podrick said quietly.

Tyrion frowned, pushing himself to his feet. Anyone who might think of visiting ought to be at the wedding. "Who is it?"

"Sander Clegane," Podrick said. "And... he says the girl with him is Arya Stark."

Tyrion pushed past Podrick, sprinting down the hall. Over his shoulder he called, "Get Sansa!"

-TSTSTSTS-

When Tyrion arrived at the front of the castle it was to find the Hound and his captive barred from entrance by a few knights, Bronn included. The child beside the hound was grubby, hair cut short and dirt streaming across her face, but through all of that Tyrion could see that it was indeed Arya Stark.

"That's a Lannister," the child said. She turned, beating her small fists against the hound's thigh. "What happened to 'fuck the Lannisters'? You said you were bringing me to family!"

"Fuck the Lannisters?" Tyrion gave Sander a small, humored smile.

"She's tired," the hound muttered. "Doesn't know what she's talking about."

"I'm sure." Tyrion didn't try to comfort the child. She had no reason to trust him. Sansa had more reasons than Arya, and it had taken her at least a month to warm to him.

The castle door opened and a breathless Sansa stepped out, trailed by a flushed Podrick. There was a question on her lips, but when her eyes touched upon Arya, it went away. She let out a cry and sprinted forward. "Arya!"

"Sansa?" Arya dropped her hands away from the hound, looking baffled.

Sansa wrapped her arms around Arya, pulling her close. "I thought you were dead!"

"Not yet," Arya mumbled. "What are you doing with... _him_."

"Oh." Sansa dropped her arms. She looked back at Tyrion uncertainly. "Well..."

"This is all very _touching_ ," Clegane drawled. "But I actually have things to do. I want a hundred gold dragons for the girl."

"A _hundred_ ," Tyrion repeated.

"Are you going to refuse?" Sander jutted his chin in the direction of Sansa and Arya.

Tyrion sighed. "Hardly. Podrick, fetch the man his money. Feel free to grab a few gold coins for yourself while you're doing it-if I'm to be robbed today, every man might as well get his share."

-TSTSTSTS-

Sansa stood beside her sister as she waited for Podrick to return with the coins. Seeing Arya in front of her after so much time apart felt unreal. Her sister had grown nearly a foot, standing now at the same height as Tyrion, and the curves of womanhood were beginning to fall upon her. She was skinnier than she had been in King's Landing, and dirtier. Sansa touched her sister's cropped hair, and then the hem of her tunic. "What are you wearing."

Arya shrugged uncomfortably. "I dressed as a boy to get out of King's Landing."

"That was two years ago," Sansa reminded her.

"Well, I've been a little preoccupied," Arya said. "Haven't had much time for clothes shopping."

Sansa flushed. As when they were children, Arya had the unique ability to make Sansa feel like a child.

The castle door opened and Podrick stepped outside, a purse held uncertainly in his hands. Tyrion nodded towards the hound, and Podrick jogged to the man and held the purse out.

Clegane flipped the purse open, staring down into it for a moment, and then he nodded. "Aye. Looks like it's all there."

Arya turned to him. "You're done with me, then?"

"I'm done with you," Clegane agreed. "Good riddance."

Arya stared at him for a moment, and then she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his legs.

"Gods." Clegane held himself stiffly. "You're making a scene, girl."

Arya stepped back from him. "You're still on my list, you know."

"I know." Clegane swallowed and then nodded at her. "Until that day, then."

"Until that day," Arya agreed.

Sansa watched as Sander Clegane made his slow way away from Casterly Rock. Part of her wanted to call out to him, to ask him back, to ask him why he'd finally left Joffrey... She suspected she wouldn't get those answers from him even if she asked them, though, and in the end she watched him leave.

"Okay." Arya's voice came from her left. "Seriously. _How_ did you end up here with... _him_?"

Sansa's eyes flicked to Tyrion, who stood at the top of the stairs to the castle looking down at them. In a small voice she said, "He's my husband."

"What?" Arya's eyes flashed. "That's... that's _sick_ , even for the Lannisters."

Sansa opened her mouth to reply, but she didn't know what to say. She'd thought the same thing when she and Tyrion were first wed. It _was_ sick, wasn't it? Just because she and Tyrion had found each other through all of the wreckage didn't change what the situation had been in the beginning.

Tyrion smiled gently. "Lady Stark. Welcome to Casterly Rock. Should I have the handmaidens draw you a bath?"

"I-" Arya stared at him.

"You _do_ need a bath," Sansa said, grateful to have the conversation on even ground. "I'll see if Adelaide can take in one of my dresses for you."

"I like my breeches," Arya replied coolly.

Sansa shook her head, not sure how to deal with that. After so long away from Arya, she didn't want to fight with her sister, but it simply wasn't _proper_ for a girl to go around in breeches.

Tyrion stepped forward. "We'll have your measurements taken and get you some new clothes of your own this week, Lady Arya. In the meantime, one of your sister's dresses would at least be _clean_."

Arya frowned, and then after a long moment she nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

"I'll see to the handmaids." Tyrion turned towards the castle. "I'll put her in the West Tower, Sansa. You can show her the way?"

"Of course," Sansa said. She watched while Tyrion walked into the castle, trailed by his squire and his guards. She was left alone in the courtyard with her sister-her tiny, spitfire of a sister, nearly grown now.

"When did you come to Casterly Rock?" Arya asked.

Sansa frowned, pulling on a strand of her hair. "We haven't been here long. A few days."

"Robb's dead," Arya said. "Mother as well."

Sansa inclined her head. "We heard on the road."

"I saw it," Arya said.

Sansa turned to her in surprise.

"The hound was taking me there first," Arya said. "He was going to sell me to Robb. We got there in time to see them kill Grey Wind."

Sansa touched her fingers to a greasy strand of her sister's hair. "Considering how everything _happened_ , I'm glad he didn't make it in time to sell you to them."

Arya swallowed. "Me, too."

Sansa shook her head. "How did you make it out of King's Landing?"

"Yoren took me with some men headed for the wall," Arya said. After a beat she added, "He's dead now."

"I'm sorry," Sansa said.

Arya nodded mutely. Seeming to reach for something else to talk about, she said, "How long have you been married to the imp?"

"Don't call him that," Sansa said quietly.

Arya stared at her.

"Not quite two months," Sansa told her.

"Oh." Arya stared at the castle doors. "Too early to tell if you're with child, then?"

"I'm not with child," Sansa said.

Arya looked at her in surprise.

"I'm...flowering." Sansa shrugged, embarrassed.

"Is he upset?"

"No." Sansa's fingers reached to touch the necklace he'd given her for her name day. She almost always wore it. She said, "We've only... once."

"On your wedding day?" Arya clarified.

"No." Sansa sighed, tugging on a strand of hair. "He... We didn't. On the wedding day. He wanted to wait until I was ready."

"But you've done it since then?"

Sansa shrugged, feeling helpless. "I was ready."

"You were ready," Arya repeated. "You were ready with _him_."

Sansa frowned, staring at the doors her husband had disappeared through. "He's... surprising."

"Is he?" Arya gave her a dubious look.

Sansa sighed. "I suppose you can imagine that I had few friends in King's Landing after Father died?"

"Father was murdered."

Sansa inclined her head. "Yes. He was murdered. Joffrey was-is-a _monster_. You were right about him, of course. He only got worse as the war continued. He used to have his guards beat me when Robb would win a battle."

Arya winced.

"Tyrion saved me from him," Sansa said. "More than once. He was kind to me. He _is_ kind to me."

"He's rather ugly," Arya said.

Sansa replied, "Joffrey's rather pretty."

Arya laughed. "Yes. I suppose he is. You're happy?"

"Happy enough," Sansa said. "Happier than I've been in... Well, since Father died."

"Hmm." Arya frowned at her, and then she shrugged. "I guess I should take that bath."

-TSTSTSTS-

Tyrion had retreated back to his office. He told himself that it was so that he could give the ladies some time to themselves. It was partially true. Another part of him was licking his wounds. Sansa had barely been able to say the word husband to her sister. She'd barely been able to _look_ at him. They had consummated exactly once, and Sansa had been hurting at the time. That wasn't _love_. He couldn't believe that he'd even allowed himself to believe it might be. That morning when she'd been so upset when she was flowering-was it the disappointment at not having a child, or the realization that she'd have to bed him again?

The door creaked open and Bronn stepped in. The sell sword rolled his eyes when he saw Tyrion sitting at his desk. "I knew you'd be in here sulking."

"I'm not sulking," Tyrion said.

Bronn snorted.

"I'm _not_ sulking," Tyrion repeated.

Bronn ignored him. He grabbed a decanter from a table nearby and poured them each a glass of wine. Handing one to Tyrion, he said, "What did you expect her to say? She hasn't seen her sister in two years."

"I know that." Tyrion drank the wine gratefully.

"Your relationship isn't perfect," Bronn said. "It's getting better, sure. But it's not perfect."

"I _know_."

"You're not exactly prince charming."

Tyrion glared at him, not bothering to repeat that he knew all of this already.

"Look." Bronn took a swig of wine. "All I'm saying is, your fourteen year old bride sees her sister for the first time in two years. She's married to the ugliest of the Lannisters, and her sister is looking at her like she's stabbed both their parents in the back. How is she supposed to defend _you_ without looking like she's been brainwashed by the lot of them?"

Tyrion scowled at the glass in his hands.

"Be nice to the Stark girl," Bronn said. "You win her over, you'll win her sister twofold."

-TSTSTSTS-

Arya watched as two years of grime and dirt slipped away from her. She ducked her head under the water, scrubbing at her hair with a bar of soap, and when she surfaced it was to the feel of muddied water dripping down her face. Arya laughed, wiping it from her face. She may be in the lion's den, but at least it was clean here.

When she was as clean as she could be in the dirtied water Arya stood and stepped out onto the floor. A handmaiden wrapped in her a towel. Arya smiled at her and bowed slightly. "Thanks. I can get myself dressed, I think."

"Yes, miss." The handmaiden smiled at her and slipped out of the room.

"Miss." Arya shook her head. She had forgotten what it was to be a proper lady, doted upon by servants. Had she ever really known? Certainly in Winterfell she hadn't had ladies dressing her. She'd had Old Nan and that was about it.

She tugged on the shift and dress that had been left for her. They were both large on her thin frame. Arya wiggled, trying to re-accustom herself to the flowing fabric, and looked at herself in a nearby mirror. She looked like a boy in a dress. Arya stuck her tongue out at the reflection. She belted Needle to her, and it only added to the ridiculousness of the ensemble.

Arya sighed, pushing through the door and stepping into the West Wing.

The boy who had fetched the gold coins for Clegane stood just outside the door. "Milady. Can I bring you somewhere?"

Arya winced at the words. _Milady_. She remembered the day Gendry had left her. She had told him that she could be his family, and he'd told her she wouldn't be family-she'd only ever be _milady_. "Don't call me that."

Podrick looked at her, confusion on his face.

"Call me Arya," she said. "Please."

"Can I bring you somewhere, Arya?"

She swallowed. "Do you know where Lord Tyrion is?"

Podrick nodded. "In his study."

"Take me there, then," she said.

Podrick nodded and led the way down winding stairs and stone hallways. He stopped outside a large wooden door, rapped twice, and poked his head in. "My Lord? Lady Arya to see you."

Arya couldn't hear Tyrion's reply, but a moment later a guard left the room and Podrick nodded for her to go in. She found the imp sitting with his feet propped on his desk, a goblet held in his small hands. Arya sighed. She threw herself into a chair across from him. "You're fucking my sister."

Tyrion coughed and sat up, his feet falling from the desk to the floor.

"She told me that," Arya said.

Tyrion smirked. "I doubt she used those words."

"No," Arya agreed. "She's too delicate for that."

" _Proper_ ," Tyrion corrected. "Your sister is not delicate."

Arya wrinkled her nose. "She was last I knew her."

"Forgive me," Tyrion said, "but that was a time ago. You don't survive two years in King's Landing on the other side of the war by being _delicate_."

"I suppose not." Arya tugged uncomfortably on her dress. It hugged her wrong.

"Is there a reason you came to see me?"

Arya sighed. She dragged a hand through her hair. "Look. Sansa seems to like you."

Tyrion's brows raised into his hairline in surprise.

"Last I knew, Sansa was a perfect idiot," Arya said. "She used to like Joffrey as well. She used to say that she loved him."

"She was young then."

"She was the same age I am now," Arya said.

"Forgive me," Tyrion said, "but _you_ are young."

Arya scowled.

"War ages people faster than peace," Tyrion placated.

"Maybe." Arya bit her lip. "I just... I wanted you to know that if you hurt her, I'll slit your throat."

"Will you?"

"I've done it before," Arya said. "I killed a fat boy, and a soldier..."

"I'm sure you did," Tyrion said quietly. He took a sip of his drink. "You've no need to worry. I will not hurt your sister."


	15. Zombie

**A/N: A short chapter today, but hopefully an enjoyable one. You get a little bit of Arya in here, so hopefully that makes people happy - I've had some requests for more of her. Thank you for all of the reviews in the past day-it's been awesome. I tried to respond to most people. CLH - I couldn't respond to you because you're a guest, but I really appreciate everything you've had to say. Hopefully the next chapter doesn't disappoint.**

 **As always, reviews welcome :)**

 **Zombie - the Cranberries**

 _Another head hangs lowly,_

 _child is slowly taken._

 _And the violence caused such silence-_

 _who are we mistaken?_

 _But you see, it's not me._

 _It's not my family._

 _In your head, in your head, they are fighting..._

 _In your head, in your head, they are crying._

January 2, 300

Sansa hadn't slept.

She and Tyrion hadn't spoken much about Arya's arrival. Sansa hadn't been able to. It was far too easy to enjoy having her sister with her again. She'd thought for sure that Arya was dead. To have her at Casterly Rock, older and more jaded than she'd been, perhaps, but safe and well, was like living in a dream.

It wasn't a dream though. Sansa had lain awake all night knowing that it wasn't a dream. This was real life. In real life, Arya was wanted by the Lannisters and had just come to Lannister territory. The budding trust between Sansa and Tyrion mattered very little in this regard. The servants here belonged to Tyrion's father, and in all likelihood word was already fluttering back to King's Landing that Arya was here. It meant that she and Tyrion would have to send word as well or risk looking like betrayers.

And then what?

With Robb and their mother dead, Arya wasn't needed as a hostage. Her two years away would make her seem every bit the betrayer to Joffrey as the rest of their family-as if Joffrey needed proof of it. He'd have her head. By coming here, Arya had signed her own death warrant.

Sansa had thrashed for most of the evening. Finally, before dawn, she pushed herself out of bed, careful in her movements. Tyrion slept on, his brow furrowed. Sansa pulled on a dressing gown and slipped out the door.

She wandered the halls without properly knowing where she was heading. In the end she found herself in Tyrion's study. She recognized some of the books on his shelves as ones she had packed for him. Others had been here for years. The shelves stretched towards the ceiling.

Sansa sighed, dropping into his desk chair. She felt restless. It was that more than anything else that had her rifling through his desk, opening drawer after drawer.

It was located in the third drawer down on the left. She stared at it, her breath caught in her chest. Her fingers reached out, touching it, relishing in its familiarity. Her comb.

It would be so easy, she thought. The pain would help-it always did.

She thought of Tyrion. She thought of the way his mouth twisted when he said _my lady_ and the gentle tug of his hand on hers as they ran up the hillside. He'd been so angry the night after the last time. _You were so pale_...

Sansa pulled her hand away and slammed the drawer closed again. Before she could think about it again she turned and strode purposefully from the room.

-TSTSTSTS-

Tyrion woke to find himself alone, his wife's side of the bed abandoned and cold. He frowned, looking out the window to see the time of day. Sansa was not usually up so early. He rubbed the back of his neck and pushed the blankets back. He couldn't help where his mind went, but he pushed the thought away. What reason would she have for that? He was sure she had been happy these last couple days, and now with Arya back...

The door slammed open and Sansa strode in, her face flushed and her eyes wild.

"My lady-"

"He's going to kill her!"

"Shh!" Tyrion slipped from bed and quickly strode to the door, shutting it behind her. "Who's going to kill whom?"

"Joffrey," she clarified. "Joffrey's going to kill Arya."

"He won't," Tyrion said.

"What's stopping him?" Sansa glared at him.

Tyrion said, "She will swear her fealty to him in public. She's a child, and she has, herself, committed not crimes against him. No reasonable king would kill a child who swore him fealty."

Tears shone in Sansa's eyes. "Joffrey's not reasonable."

"No." Tyrion sighed. "His advisors are, however. And his wife."

Sansa shook her head. "What if that's not enough?"

"Then we will send her to the Eyrie, to your aunt," Tyrion said. "She'll be safe there. The Eyrie's forces have never been breached."

Sansa pressed her lips together.

"It _will_ be okay." Tyrion squeezed her hand gently. "Trust me."

Sansa looked away.

"In the _meantime_ ," Tyrion said meaningfully to her, "your sister is here. She's had a long couple of years. We should make what time she does have here as enjoyable as possible."

Sansa nodded, her eyes still cast away from him.

-TSTSTSTS-

"I'm not picking fabric for a bunch of girly dresses," Arya said. "I don't _want_ to wear dresses."

"You'll look so pretty," Sansa said.

"I'll look like a weasel in a skirt," Arya said. "What do you care what I wear? I'm not trying to rob _you_ of your dresses."

"You're a Stark," Sansa said. "You should-"

"You're a Lannister," Arya interrupted. "It shouldn't be your concern."

Tyrion coughed from the doorway.

Both girls turned towards him, surprise in their eyes. They had been alone in Arya's room, and had thought no one could hear their squabbling.

Tyrion smiled gently. "A compromise, perhaps?"

Sansa raised a delicate eyebrow towards him. Arya just scowled, her arms crossed over her chest.

"You should wear whatever's comfortable during the day," Tyrion said to Arya. "Breeches and tunics are easy enough to provide."

The scowl slipped away and a triumphant look took over. She turned to Sansa. "See? Even the imp agrees with me!"

Sansa sighed. "I told you not to call him that."

Arya shrugged.

"I would ask," Tyrion pressed on, "that you agree to wear dresses at meal times, and whenever we have company of import."

Arya's nose wrinkled.

"If you agree to that," Tyrion said, "I'll see what I can do about getting Bronn to give you some additional fighting instruction."

"Seriously?" Arya's eyes lit up in excitement.

Tyrion inclined his head. "If you agree to-"

"Yeah, yeah." Arya waved a hand at him. "I'll look like a prig at meals. That's fine. Who's Bronn?"

-TSTSTSTS-

Equipped in new practice clothes, needle belted tightly to her waist, Arya stepped onto the practice courts.

Bronn was already there, looking bored. He frowned when he saw her and pointed towards needle. "What's that for?"

"Needle?" Arya looked at it. "It's my sword."

"Set it aside," Bronn instructed. "We're not using that today."

"What?" Arya shook her head. "Tyrion said you were going to teach me to fight."

"I am," Bronn said. "I'm going to teach you to fight. With your _fists_."

"But I have needle," Arya said. "I need to learn-"

Bronn leapt forward, grabbed Arya around the shoulders, and pinned her to the ground.

"What are you _doing?"_ Arya cried. "Get off of me!"

"You have your _sword_ ," Bronn said. "Make me."

"I..." Arya wiggled. "I _can't."_

"Exactly." Bronn stood, shoving her to the side, and dusted himself off. "Put the sword aside. When you can take care of yourself without it, we'll start using it."


	16. Please Don't Say You Love Me

**A/N: Wow, guys. Just, wow. All the support on this story is AMAZING. You guys are awesome. Your reviews are making me so happy-it's really pushing my writing forward. My fiance keeps having to drag me away to actually, you know, do life stuff. Lol.**

 **On a side note, I just decided the last line of this story.**

 **This is going to be a series, and the last line is a gazillion chapters away besides, so don't worry about it. But I did figure out the last line. Any guesses? (Hint: It's two words).**

 **In other news. Per popular request, a bit more Sansa/Tyrion in this chapter. Hopefully that doesn't disappoint our Arya fans. (In point of fact, Arya was not originally in this story... It's always funny how the chapters take on their own shape as you're writing them. We'll see what happens)**

 **Please Don't Say You Love Me - Gabrielle Aplin**

 _Winter comes, summer fades_

 _here we are just the same._

 _We don't need pressure, we don't need change._

 _Let's not give the game away._

 _There used to be an empty space…_

 _But with your presence and your grace_

 _everything falls into place._

 _Just please don't say you love me_

' _cause I might not say it back._

 _Doesn't mean my heart stops skipping_

 _when you look at me like that._

 _There's no need to worry when you see just where we're at._

 _Just please don't say you love me,_

' _cause I might not say it back._

The raven came at breakfast.

Tyrion and Sansa were in the great hall, eating eggs and toast. As a child Sansa had dreamed of sitting at the focus of the head table in a great hall, looking over her people, but now that she was older she found that she didn't care for the attention. She much preferred the quiet mornings she and Tyrion spent in their bedchambers. As they were the presiding Lord and Lady of the Rock, however, they tried to make an appearance in the great hall at least once a day. It was tedious, but there it was.

Arya seemed to have less of a time of it, but then, she was not required to sit at the head table. As far as Sansa knew, Arya was in the great hall for every meal. She usually sat with Bronn and Podrick. Sansa was sure that outside the great hall the two men had Arya drinking rather more than she should at her young age, but she didn't know what to do about it. Arya had been on her own for two years: She wouldn't welcome Sansa mothering her now.

The raven flew in one of the tall, gaping castle windows, a letter tied to its leg. It made its way to the head table automatically, landing with a soft sound in front of Tyrion. Tyrion frowned, leaning forward to untie the letter from the raven's leg. He unrolled it and, without reading it first, held it so that Sansa could see as well.

 _Little Brother-_

 _Much news to bear from the capital. The first, as you may presume, is that I have returned home. The second, more serious, is that the King is dead. Joffrey died at his wedding feast. Cersei is overwrought. She says to tell you that if the king did not see fit to invite you to his wedding, there is no reason for you to show for his funeral. I, on the other hand, will attend. After I will be making my way to Casterly Rock to see you and say hello to your new young bride._

 _Long Live King Tommen, first of his name._

 _-Jaime_

Sansa exchanged a look with Tyrion. It took everything she had in her not to smile at the knowledge that Joffrey was dead. Tommen was only a child, but the child king would be better than the sadistic king, she was sure.

Tyrion stood, tapping on the side of his goblet with his knife until the hall fell silent. In a powerful voice he announced, "King Joffrey has died. Long live King Tommen Baratheon, first of his name!"

As cries of "long live the king!" filled the hall, Sansa's eyes sought her sister. Arya was sitting very still beside Podrick, her eyes on the table in front of her. Her face gave nothing away, and Sansa let out a slow breath of relief. Arya would have to swear fealty to the new king, publicly. Sansa and Tyrion had discussed it at length over the past few days, and it was the only offer they could come up with to ensure Arya's safety. They hadn't told her yet, and Sansa hadn't known if her young sister had the sublty to deal with news of Joffrey's death, but it seemed she had mistaken her. They had both grown in their years apart.

-TSTSTSTS-

Joffrey was dead. Tyrion's words washed over Arya like a bucket of ice water on a hot summer day: Startling, terrifying, and, once she got used to it, oh so sweet. She was careful to keep her expression tame, all too aware that she was in the heart of Lannister territory. Tyrion seemed like an okay sort, maybe, but the walls had eyes and ears. Tyrion and Sansa hadn't said it to her yet, but she knew that with the her mother and Robb dead, the war was essentially over. If she wanted to keep her own neck she'd have to swear fealty to the Lannisters just as Sansa had done.

It would be much easier to swear fealty to Tommen than to Joffrey.

Arya's hands shook as the news washed over her further. Joffrey's name was off her list. In truth, she wished that she could have been the one to handle him herself, but that might be asking a lot. She was desperate to know how he died. Her eyes flicked up to the head table, searching her sister's face and then Tyrion's. Like her, they were careful to keep their emotions-whatever they may be-well concealed.

Bronn leaned heavily on the table. "Well. I don't know about the rest of you, but I would rather enjoy a drink."

Podrick frowned. In the days she had been at court, Arya had learned that Podrick wasn't actually very good at drinking.

"I'll take one as well," Arya said. When she'd first met up with the hound she hadn't been able to stand the taste of ale, but after the journey they had taken, Arya had learned two important things. The first was that any food or beverage was better than none, and the second was that when you drank with men, they tended to treat you like one of their own-at least for a time.

-TSTSTSTS-

Tyrion did his duty. He made sure to instruct the bell-ringers to ring that the king had died, and to ring again about the ascension of Tommen. He sent a raven to his brother, offering condolences about Joffrey and high hopes for Tommen. He had a feast arranged for evening-he wasn't sure if the feast was supposed to commemorate Joffrey or celebrate Tommen, but he had it arranged anyway. As he did his duty, he found that all he wanted was to be with his bride.

It was afternoon before he was free to seek her out. He tried their room first, and the godswood, but when he found her it was in the gardens, sitting on a low wall with a book. Tyrion sat beside her, watching the fall of her hair as she finished her chapter.

"Tyrion." She smiled at him at last, marking her place in the book with a small piece of cloth. "I thought you'd be busy the entire day."

"I carved out some time in my day." Tyrion stood, holding a hand out to her. "Come."

She gave him a bemused look but took his hand, allowing him to guide her into the castle and upstairs to their quarters. Tyrion barred the door. He took her book from her hand and set it upon the small table they had in their room.

"What are you doing?" Sansa frowned at him.

"I'm celebrating the new king." Tyrion unbuttoned the front of his tunic, tossing it onto the back of a chair.

"Cele-oh." Sansa's eyes widened in comprehension.

Tyrion paused. "Unless you don't feel like...?"

"No," Sansa said. "I mean, yes. I mean… Yes, let's celebrate."

Tyrion chuckled at her nervousness. He said, "You know, I've yet to be the one to undress you."

Sansa swallowed visibly, and then she knelt in front of him, her back to him. Tyrion eyed the long row of intricate lacing on her dress, which extended from the nape of her neck to midway down her rear end. He had half a mind to cut through it all, but instead he stepped closer and began to untie each tiny bow one by one. Sansa shivered as her back was exposed piece by piece to the room. When he'd untied every little bow, he lowered the dress from her shoulders.

This time-the second time-Tyrion felt calmer as he stared upon her milky skin. He hadn't realized quite how nervous he had been the first time, but this time he found that he could truly take her in her beauty. She _was_ beautiful-no man in the seven kingdoms would deny that. Her hair was the most magnificent shade of red he had ever seen, and it fell on her shoulders like a rose on a winter's snow.

"My Lord?" Sansa looked at him questioningly.

He had spent too long staring. Tyrion gave a gentle smile and held a hand out to her. "Come, my Lady. To bed."

-TSTSTSTS-

The first time she had been hurting. The sting of everything had pushed any nervousness she might have felt to the very edge of her mind, and she had been his. This, the second time, was slower. She stepped carefully over her fallen dress, allowing her small lord to guide her to the bed. She noticed everything, from the fall of the Lannister-red curtains around her bed to Tyrion's soft breath. Most of all she noticed the tightness of her own stomach. No longer hurting, she felt self-conscious. As Tyrion nudged her backwards onto the bed, she wondered where to put her hands.

Tyrion traced a finger over her abdomen. She shivered, sucking her stomach in naturally as a response. The hairs on her arms rose, tiny bumps seeming to spring up instantly.

Last time, she remembered, she had felt bad for not contributing. She didn't know how to contribute this time, either, but she felt she ought to at least try. She lifted her left hand, touching it gently to his face. Her fingertips were drawn like magnets to his scar. They touched it, following the hills and valleys of it from jaw to nose.

Tyrion's eyes closed, and he grimaced for a moment as if in pain.

"Are you okay?" Sansa asked.

"Yes." Tyrion caught her hand, gently kissed her palm, and placed her hand to the side.

Sansa frowned at him, not understanding.

"It's not my most attractive quality." Tyrion touched his scar, smiled uncomfortably, and looked away.

Sansa's mouth felt dry. She shook her head. "It makes you look like a man."

Tyrion snorted.

"I mean it." Sansa sat up, resting on her elbows. "Lady Margaery said the same."

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "She did not."

"She did." Sansa put on a high-pitched voice, impersonating Margaery. "Some people like tall men, some like short men. Hairy men, skinny men, skinny _girls_. Most women don't know what they want until they try it. Tyrion's attractive, even with the scar. _Especially_ with the scar."

Tyrion's laughter bubbled up from inside of him, the first full-bellied laugh Sansa had ever heard from him. "Under what circumstances would Lady Margaery have said that?"

"She said it when we were first betrothed," Sansa said. "I was scared to death, and she said you'd probably surprise me."

"And did I?"

Sansa gave him a steady look. "I find you surprising every day."

Tyrion pushed her backwards. She landed with her head between their pillows. Her elbow caught a bit of her hair, pulling. She winced and readjusted, lifting her body as Tyrion leaned in for a kiss. Their brows collided, and Sansa fell backwards again, her hand lifting to touch her forehead.

"Ow." Tyrion frowned, shaking his head. "I'm usually more graceful..."

"Hush." Sansa cupped the unscarred side of his face. His stubble scratched her palm as she guided his face closer to hers. She pressed her lips to him. It was a gentle kiss this time, his lips soft and parting. She rubbed the pad of her thumb across his jaw line and slid her other hand to the back of his neck, touching the little hairs that grew there.

Tyrion pulled back for a second. He lifted his shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor. Sansa touched her fingers to his chest, where hairs grew black rather than blonde like on his head. She smiled at him and whispered, "Please."

-TSTSTSTS-

Afterwards, she lay in bed with her head against his chest, listening to the stead dum-dum of his heart against her ear. _Alive, Alive, Alive_. She could feel his fingertips trailing aimlessly across her back, a soft, soothing motion that made her want to go to sleep. She yawned, fighting the urge, and pushed away from him.

"Milday?" He frowned at her.

Sansa sighed, running a hand across her face. "We have a feast to prepare for."

He groaned, pushing himself upright. "I'd managed to forget about that."

"I have to make sure Arya dresses appropriately," Sansa said. "And she must sit at the head table tonight-she can't sit with Bronn and Podrick at every meal."

"Mm." Tyrion ruffled his hair, letting the curls go wild. "You'll be a wonderful mother one day."

Sansa stilled at his words.

Tyrion, seeming to realize too late what he'd said, flushed. "I didn't mean... It's okay if you're not ready for that yet, Sansa. I was just talking."

Sansa touched the direwolf necklace that still hung on her neck. "You know, I actually think I _am_ ready."

Tyrion's mismatched eyes held hers for a moment. "You are?"

Sansa turned from him, taking her time to select a dress. After a long moment, when he'd thought she wasn't going to answer him, her voice spoke softly. "I am."


	17. The Giving Tree

**A/N: Two chapters in one day! Woot woot! This one is shorter and showcases some of our tertiary characters-trying to round out the cast a bit. But it's a bonus chapter, the second in one day, so hopefully you won't mind too much. (I figured if I wrote a short-ish one I could squeeze in some of the bits I'd been neglecting).**

 **Please R &R. It makes my day when you do. **

**The Giving Tree - Plain White T's**

 _All the leaves on the giving tree have fallen._

 _No shade to crawl in underneath._

 _I got scars from a pocket knife_

 _where you carved you heart into me._

 _If all you wanted was love_

 _why would you use me up-_

 _cut me down, build a boat, and sail away?_

 _When all I wanted to be was your giving tree-_

 _settle down, build a home, and make you happy?_

January 10, 300

Arya was late. She'd been supposed to meet Bronn at the practice yards right after breakfast, but it had taken her forever to figure out how to undo the stupid lace corset Sansa had insisted she wear at meal times, as if Arya was a complete _girl_. She didn't know why Sansa bothered. Arya had no interest in being a lady or marrying or having lots of screaming babies to take care of. What was the fun in that? If she had babies she'd never have time to get anything done. That was all right for people like Sansa, but Arya was capable of more than that.

She only wished she could get Sansa to see that.

Arya rounded a corner. As she did so, she collided with something large and strong. The force flung her backwards, gracelessly, and she sprawled across the cobblestones.

"Milady!" The voice was sharp with concern.

A hand reached towards her, and when Arya looked up it was to see dark hair fallen over concerned eyes. _Gendry_. But no-Gendry was gone. He'd been sold like cattle to the woman in red. She flushed hotly even as she allowed Podrick to pull her to her feet again.

"I'm sorry, milady," Podrick stammered. "I didn't see you there..."

Arya shook her head. "It's Arya. And don't worry about it. I wasn't watching where I was going."

"Right." Podrick looked down at her feet.

Arya realized she hadn't dropped her hand from his. She flushed, yanking her hand away as if his were a hot stove, and she took a step backwards. "I-I'll see you later, Pod."

"Sure." Podrick gave her a curious look.

Arya didn't stick around to decipher it. She took off again, sprinting, towards the practice yards.

-TSTSTSTS-

Sansa scowled as she caught herself with the needle again-unintentionally this time. Tyrion's twenty-eighth name day was in just over a month. On her own name day, Tyrion had gone to lengths to ensure that she had something special to celebrate, and that was earlier in their marriage, before things between them had become so settled. Sansa was determined to do right by him for his name day, but it was hard to gift a man who could buy himself whatever he wanted. She had decided to make his name day present, an ornate tapestry depicting his bravery at the Battle of Blackwater.

She hadn't counted on how damned long it would take, nor how close together the stitching would have to be to look the way she wanted it to. She'd spent every free second she could hidden away in an abandoned wing of the castle, stitching the fool thing. Every minute she stitched, she wondered if she oughtn't to have selected an easier task for herself.

There was a soft knock on her door just as the noon bell rang, and Adelaide came in bearing lunch for Sansa. Sansa smiled at her, nodding towards a corner of the room where a table and chair sat. Adelaide was the only one in the castle who knew her precise location, which Tyrion said he was fine with as long as she checked in regularly.

Adelaide frowned, not leaving after she had set the lunch foods down.

Sansa glanced at her absently. "That'll be all, Adelaide."

Adelaide smiled gently but did not move. "My Lord said he is afraid you've been neglecting your eating, and..."

Sansa nodded, pressing her handmaiden to continue.

Adelaide flushed. "He said I should stay and make sure you eat everything on the tray."

" _Controlling_ little man." Sansa sighed, settling her stitching to the side. If possible, Tyrion had become more interested in her eating habits since the day she'd admitted that she wanted to start trying for children more earnestly. She would have thought he'd become more interested in the actual making of the babies, but though they'd tried for it every day that week, his interest seemed to be in making sure she was well fed. She wondered, as she crossed to the table, if he thought that she would magically become pregnant if only they made her gain the requisite weight.

Adelaide hovered near her elbow.

"If you're going to be here anyway, you might as well join me." Sansa gestured towards the chair across from her. "I can't possibly eat all of this anyway."

"My lady, are you sure you're-"

Sansa rolled her eyes. "In King's Landing I had a dozen handmaidens and ladies to chat with at all times. It gets quiet here. Sit."

Adelaide slid into a seat. She tugged on the hem of her shirt.

Sansa, fighting for something to say to the girl, who was closer to Arya's age than her own, carefully buttered a roll. She said, "Tyrion says your mother is acquainted with his knight, Bronn?"

Adelaide ducked, her eyes focusing on the table. "Yes."

Sansa frowned. "Is that... nice?"

"He's very good to us both," Adelaide said. "He got me this job. I was a scullery maid before."

"Were you?" Sansa thought that might explain the girl's skittish nature. She hadn't known a lot of scullery maids, but the ones she had known had often been beaten by servants higher up. Sansa frowned, remembering suddenly that Adelaide had been the one to help the night Sansa had hurt. She set her roll on the table. "Who taught you how to stitch people like that?"

Adelaide gave a small, soft smile. "My father. He was a healer."

"He was?" Sansa couldn't keep the surprise from her voice. Healers rarely had scullery maids as daughters.

Adelaide shrugged uncomfortably. "He died when I was eight. Mum couldn't keep the house running on her own."

"Oh." Sansa gave an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry."

Adelaide shrugged again. She took a strawberry from the basket and stuck it in her mouth. "The Septon said that the Gods give us these challenges to test our fortitude."

"Wars test us all," Sansa returned. She sighed, her eyes flitting towards the tapestry she was sewing. Who'd have thought she would spend her days sewing a reminder of a war fought to protect her enemies? They weren't her enemies anymore, though. Tyrion was her husband. One day he would be the father of her children. And her children should look upon the Battle of Blackwater and be proud of how brave and strong and wise their father was.

She shook her head, plucking the bread from the table and sticking it into her mouth. She remembered asking her father about the war he'd fought with Robert Baratheon. When she was a child, she used to think it was exciting to hear all the songs of war and romance. Her father would comply, but there was always a shadowed look to his eyes. She wondered now how many enemies he had befriended by the end of the war, and how many battles he honored that had been fought for reasons he didn't fully understand.

-TSTSTSTS-

The last few times they had slept together, Tyrion had noticed Sansa's eyes roving towards the curtains that surrounded their bed. They were in the Lannister gold and red. The whole room, he realized, was in Lannister colors. And though Sansa was a Lannister, it couldn't be good to remind her of her years of captivity every time they made love.

While she was away, working on whatever secret project she had, he brought Clara into the room to take measurements. Clara was Adelaide's mother, a dark-skinned woman with laugh-lines around her eyes whose hair was already starting to grey though she couldn't have been much past thirty. Though she was to be their nanny one day, Tyrion was currently paying her a salary just to stay on retainer. He thought he should at least get his money's worth.

"I want it to be green and white," Tyrion said. "Like a forest in winter. Stay away from grays-we can't have anyone thinking we're turning the Lannister master suite into a memorial for the Starks-but... Try to remind her of home.

Clara smiled at him. "It's a nice thing you're doing for her, my Lord."

Tyrion waved her off, uncomfortable with the praise. "She is the lady of the house. I want it to feel like her home."

"And Lady Arya?" Clara raised a brow.

Tyrion frowned. "I'm already redecorating one wing. I might as well do the other. She is the lady's sister."

"Of course." Clara gave a small smile. "Blue for the little lady, correct?"

Tyrion nodded. "Dark. With coral accents-small ones, nothing too feminine, but enough to lighten the room."

"To lighten the room?" A mocking voice came from the doorway. "What do you know about lightening a room."

Tyrion spun to see Bronn leaning against the doorjamb.

"All men should know a little bit of women's arts," Tyrion said. "Just as all women should know a little bit of men's arts. It leads to greater understanding between the sexes."

Bronn snorted. "Is that what your Nan taught you when you were a boy?"

"Yes."

"She was trying to make you feel good," Bronn pointed out. "Prolly 'cause you couldn't handle the men's arts half so well as the women's."

Tyrion scowled. "I do just fine with men's arts, thank you very much."

"Sure you do." Bronn rolled his eyes. "Leave the woman to her work."

"And do what instead?"

Bronn grinned, holding a flask up. "Drink."

"Well, I can't very well argue with that." Tyrion bowed towards Clara. "If you'll excuse me."

"Go." Clara laughed, waving him off.


	18. Human

**A/N: Wow, guys. The response to this has been overwhelming! Truly-I'm in awe. Another chapter for you lovelies. We're nearing the end of January in-story. Crazy :)**

 **I'm loving and appreciating your reviews. One reviewer pointed out that Maester's don't take wives. I've adjusted Adelaide's dad to healer. I'm not even sure if that's a title in Westeros, but that's what I'm going with.**

 **Guesses for the last two words so far include "Winter's Here" and "My Lady." Which are both good answers. Other guesses?**

 **Human - Christina Perri**

 _I can hold my breath_

 _I can bite my tongue_

 _I can stay awake for days_

 _if that's what you want..._

 _I can fake a smile._

 _I can force a laugh._

 _I can dance and play the part_

 _if that's what you ask._

 _Give you all I am..._

 _But I'm only human_

 _and I bleed when I fall down._

January 29, 300

Sansa finally abandoned her work for the night, settling the tapestry and her needle in a corner to wait for the morrow. She was making good progress, but it needed to be done in little over a fortnight and part of her wondered if she would get it done in time. Tyrion's brother was due any day now, and she was sure that it wouldn't be polite to disappear for hours at a time once he'd arrived. Already she wasn't seeing near enough of her sister. Arya came to visit her occasionally, but she was too restless to really enjoy chatting with Sansa while Sansa engaged in needlework, and her visits were always far too short.

Sansa was exhausted. She had been, it felt, for a week or two now. It had to be the needlework. So much time spent staring at one thing made her eyes hurt and her body drag. It would be worth it, she knew, when she was able to present the tapestry to Tyrion on his name day, but in the mean time she was finding it hard to drag herself through the day.

She pushed herself to her feet and dragged herself down the hall towards her room, eager to simply get into bed and go to sleep. She was surprised to see light coming from beneath their door: It was late, and she'd thought Tyrion would be abed already. She nudged the door open and stepped into their room.

Sansa's breath caught in her chest. Their room had been transformed. Tyrion watched from the bed as she crossed over, her fingertips brushing the new green drapes. Green and white-their whole room had been done over in green and white.

"It's beautiful," Sansa whispered. She felt tears at the back of her eyes and shook her head, feeling like a silly little girl.

Tyrion smiled. "I thought you'd never come up to bed."

"I was-" Sansa shook her head, not sure what to say. "What made you do this, Tyrion?"

"I want you happy, Sansa," he said. "You deserve to be happy. _Truly_ happy. This room... this should be your sanctuary."

Sansa slipped to her knees in front of him. She cupped his face in both of her hands and pressed her lips to his. "You're the single most glorious person I've ever met."

Tyrion laughed, looking embarrassed. "Come to bed."

Sansa snuffed the lantern before crawling into bed beside him. She rested her head against his chest, hearing the steady beat of his heart, and fell asleep almost at once.

-TSTSTSTS-

January 30, 300

There was a knock on their bedroom door in the earliest hours of the morning. Sansa groaned, scrubbing at her eyes, and pushed herself upwards. She felt Tyrion stirring beside her, equally sluggish.

Adelaide's voice came from outside the door. "Lord Jaime is here, m'lord. M'lady."

"Jaime?" Tyrion's eyes lit, and a boyish gleam shone in his eyes. He slid from his bed, reaching for a pair of trousers. "We'll be right down, Adelaide."

Sansa frowned. Her stomach twisted, and for a moment she felt she might be sick. Tyrion was excited to see Jaime, but though she would never say as much to Tyrion, she was not. She had no fond memories of Jaime Lannister. He had fought against her brother in the war-had been his prisoner. And if the rumors regarding him and Cersei were true, he had fathered a monster. What kind of man could he possibly be.

"Sansa?" Tyrion's voice was thick with concern. He touched her wrist. "Are you coming?"

"Yes, of course." Sansa took a deep breath and forced a smile. "Sorry. I'm a little tired."

"You were back quite late last night," Tyrion agreed.

"Yes." Sansa smiled. She collected a dress and pulled it on hastily, turning so Tyrion could do up the back of it for her. Dressed like a true Lady of Casterly Rock, she reached down and clasped her husband's hand, a united front against the world outside their room.

Tyrion gave her a shy smile. "I'm anxious to see Jaime."

"I know you are." Sansa squeezed his hand gently, and together they walked for the door.

-TSTSTSTS-

Tyrion had never been so eager to see his brother, whole and healthy. For once he, Tyrion, had something to be proud of: A new wife, beautiful and healthy and willingly holding his hand as he led her down the stairs to the great hall where his brother waited. Tyrion was happy-truly happy-for perhaps the first time in his life, and if anyone in his family was going to be happy for him, it was going to be Jaime.

He pushed open the door to the great hall. There were two people waiting for him. The first was a woman, as tall and ugly as Tyrion was short and hideous. Beside her stood his brother, cleanly shaven and smiling his charming smile, but darker, somehow, with the war. Tyrion spotted the golden hand almost immediately, and his spit turned to dust in his mouth. Jaime had lost a hand. Tyrion's hand dropped away from Sansa's, and finally he understood-a bit, at least-her aversion to him when she'd heard about her family's death.

"Little brother!" Jaime smiled broadly and strode towards him. He knelt, pulling Tyrion into a hug, and Tyrion returned it mutely. Jaime sat back, holding Tyrion at arm's length. "No wise jape's?"

Tyrion's lips twitched. "I believe you single-handedly took my words away."

Jaime laughed, his blue eyes alight with mischief. He turned, looking at Sansa. "My lady. I'm sorry for your loss. Your mother was a fine woman."

"That's kind of you to say," Sansa replied woodenly.

Tyrion frowned, looking at her. Her eyes were glassy, and he realized suddenly what he should have known all along: She was not friends with Jaime Lannister. Tyrion may have won her trust these past couple of months, but Jaime had not. He felt foolish, suddenly, for thinking the two would hit it off instantly. With everything between their families, how could they?

The woman Jaime had brought with him strode forward and knelt in front of Sansa. "Lady Sansa. I was your mother's sworn hand."

Sansa blinked at her, looking startled.

"Before your mother died, she bid me-and Jaime-ensure the safety and well-being of you and your sister," the woman continued.

Sansa's posture straightened. She said, "Your duty is done. My sister and I are both here, perfectly safe."

"If you're unhappy-" the woman pressed.

Tyrion watched, uncertain of what was happening. He saw a hard look in his brother's eyes and realized that she was not alone.

Tyrion's brows rose into his hairline. "You're not here to visit me. You're here to take my wife."

"Not _take_ her." Jaime winced. "She was forced into marriage, Tyrion. She was never _really_ yours-not truly. She belongs in the north."

Tyrion felt his stomach drop at the words. It was true: Jaime intended to take Sansa away.

Sansa interrupted. "What would there be for me in the north?"

Jaime looked at her in surprise.

"Winterfell is burned," Sansa said. "My family is dead. I'm...content. With Tyrion."

"My lady," the hulking woman said. "You don't have to-"

"I _want_ to stay here with Tyrion." Sansa's voice was cold. "We're wed. We're trying for children. I'm happy here."

Affection swelled within Tyrion. His eyes felt hot and stinging. He stepped towards Sansa, touching her littlest finger gently. She turned, smiling at him, her eyes warm.

"Well, _I_ want to go north."

Tyrion turned to see Arya Stark standing boldly in the doorway, a ruffled dress hanging over her frame, a sword hanging from her waist.

"Arya," Sansa breathed.

"I want to go to the wall," Arya said. "I want to help Jon."

"Girls can't go to the wall," Sansa said.

"I'll chop my hair again." Arya shrugged.

Sansa shook her head. "Arya-"

"What good am I here?" Arya asked. "They need help on the wall. There were rumors on the road that the Whites are back. I'm never going to be a proper lady, Sansa. I should do what I'm good at."

Jaime coughed. "I'm not sure that it would count as keeping you safe-"

"I was planning to go anyway," Arya said. "You'd be keeping me safer than if I went there unescorted."

Tyrion rubbed at the spot of forehead between his brows. He was beginning to develop a headache. Sansa, he was sure, would be furious if Arya went north. He couldn't blame her: She had only just been reunited with Arya. Tyrion understood the feeling. He had only just been reunited with Jaime.

Jaime sighed. "They _are_ taking volunteers at the wall now. They need men. The king has issued a royal decree-I'm sure the raven will reach you any day. All prisoners, men and women alike, are to be sent to the wall if it is at all practical to do so. Men and women can also volunteer, and sign a contract for a select number of years..."

"See?" Arya pressed, an eager look on her face. "It's perfect!"

Tyrion shook his head. "And what is our young king planning to do with the children born at the wall?"

"Being on the wall is the most noble of services," Jaime quoted. "Children born there shall be fostered in homes across the seven kingdoms. They shall lead good lives."

"They'll be treated like bastards." Tyrion sighed.

Jaime shrugged. "They need fighters in the north. Winter is truly coming."

Arya turned, pleading eyes fixed on Sansa's face.

Sansa sighed. She looked at her feet. She said, "I'm sure Tyrion and Jaime would like to spend a few days catching up before you all travel north."

"Of course." Jaime smiled gently at her. "Thank you, my lady. You really are... most noble."

Tyrion searched his wife's face, and he saw what he was sure the rest of them missed: Behind her brave facade she was terrified, and on the verge of tears.


	19. Hero

**A/N: I'm actually surprised by how many people are asking for more Jaime scenes. Unfortunately none planned in this chapter, but I'll hopefully have some next chapter, so look forward to that.**

 **Reviews loved and appreciated!**

 **Hero - Family of the Year**

 _Let me go-_

 _I don't wanna be your hero._

 _I don't wanna be a big man._

 _I just wanna fight with everyone else._

January 31, 300

Sansa sat at the head table with her husband on one side of her and her sister on the other side. With Jaime at Casterly Rock it was important that they put on the appearance of being the picturesque Lord and Lady Tyrion's father wanted them to be. Sansa wasn't feeling it. Every time she turned her head she was reminded of what was really going on: another Lannister had come to their home, and once again they were stealing her family away from her.

Sansa could scarcely touch the meal that had been lain in front of them. Every bite turned to ash on her tongue and, when she managed to swallow it, danced in her stomach until she was sure she would hurl. How could Arya think of going to the wall? She was just a child.

When the Raven came, Sansa already knew what it would say. She didn't bother to look over Tyrion's shoulder as he read it.

Tyrion cleared his throat. "The King decrees that more are needed at the wall. All prisoners that can be safely transported should be sent to the wall. Additionally, the king encourages volunteers go to the wall with the understanding that they can return to their lands and families at any time."

Arya grinned. She leaned forward in her seat, her eyes on Jaime. "So when do we leave?"

"Not yet," Sansa heard herself say.

Arya turned in her seat, giving her sister a startled look. "You said I could go!"

"You can." Sansa clenched her fist beneath the table, her fingernails cutting into the palm of her hand. "As soon as you can beat Bronn in a fight, you may go to the wall."

"That's not fair!" Arya said. "He's twice my size."

"You'll face bigger than him on the wall," Sansa pointed out quietly.

Arya turned to Tyrion, her eyes begging him to interfere.

Tyrion shook his head. "She's right. If you can't beat one man in hand-to-hand combat, heading to the wall is suicide."

Arya glared fiercely at both of them before shoving away from the table, her chair making an awful grating noise as it scraped against the floor. Sansa watched sadly as her sister stormed from the hall, her skirt billowing behind her. She had their mother's temper and their father's pride-a danger combination. Sansa closed her eyes, feeling impossibly tired.

-TSTSTSTS-

Arya sat on a stump in the practice yards, carefully sharpening needle with a stone. She heard footsteps behind her and muttered, "You ready for me to best you?"

"M-milday?"

Arya turned, frowning. She had assumed Bronn would be the one to find her as they were to be fighting. Instead, she found herself sitting face-to-knee with Podrick. Arya stared at him for a moment. Even now there were times when she looked at him and could swear it was Gendry staring back at her beneath that mop of dark hair. She forced herself to look past that for a moment. "Sorry, Pod. I thought you were Bronn."

"No." Podrick laughed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his britches. "Sorry to disappoint."

Arya shrugged. She stood, sheathing needle. "I don't suppose _you_ want to fight?"

"I'm not much of a swordsman," Podrick admitted. "You'd have me beat in a minute."

Arya scowled. "I bet Sansa would let _you_ go to the wall, though."

Podrick shrugged. "Probably. I'm not her sister."

"She barely even knows me." Arya sighed, staring at the dirt near her feet. "In her eyes, I'm still a child."

"I don't think you're a child."

"No?" Arya looked at him. His face was flushed, and his eyes anywhere but on her. It reminded her of the way Gendry had looked when he first realized which lady she was. Arya's own face felt hot. Her hand reached up of its own accord, carding through Podrick's thick hair.

"Milady?" Podrick's eyes widened.

Arya stood on tip toe and, before she could talk herself out of it, she pressed a chaste kiss upon his chin. Before he could respond she left, sprinting back towards the castle.

-TSTSTSTS-

Tyrion hadn't seen Sansa since the confrontation with Arya at breakfast. She hadn't shown for lunch, and when he asked Adelaide if she was working on her secret project in the abandoned wing of the castle, Adelaide assured him that she wasn't. He left in search of her.

When he finally found her, it was in the window of their chambers, tucked behind the curtains so that he hadn't seen her the first time he looked. He frowned, climbing up onto the sill beside her. He didn't say a word, choosing instead to watch her watch the waves crash upon the shore below.

"I'm sick of this," Sansa whispered at last.

Tyrion watched her, waiting for her to continue.

"I was such a foolish girl," Sansa said. "All I cared about was needlework and fairy tales. And for my troubles, the Gods see fit to force me to sit neatly in a castle while everyone I love dies in battles miles away."

Tyrion reached a hand out, placing it upon her knee.

"I can't keep her here forever." Sansa turned her head and caught Tyrion's gaze. He saw tears misting her eyes. She said, "I know I can't keep her here. But I'm so sure that she'll die if she leaves, and I've only just gotten her back in my life."

Tyrion sighed softly. "I'm sorry."

"Me, too." Sansa turned back to the waves. "My mother use to tell us how lucky we were, young enough that all we remembered was summer. Winter hasn't even arrived yet and already the world feels so cold."

Tyrion had nothing comforting to say to that. He heard himself whisper, "The world _is_ cold, Sansa."

She laughed, though her smile did not reach her eyes. "Yes. I suppose it is."

-TSTSTSTS-

It took some doing, but Arya finally found the tall Lannister man who had come to town sitting in the kitchens enjoying a glass of wine. She stared at him for a moment, calculating, and then she strode in. "I want you to fight with me."

"What?" He stared at her over the top of his glass.

"Tyrion said you used to be the best swordsman in the seven kingdoms, back before you lost your hand," Arya said. "I'll never beat Bronn if Bronn's the only I fight against. I'll never learn anything he doesn't already know. I need to fight with other people."

Jaime frowned at her. "I _used_ to be good. Back before I lost my hand."

"Syrio Forel said any swordsman worth his salt learns to fight with both hands," Arya said. "I bet you know more than nothing."

Jaime smiled. "He sounds like a good instructor."

"He was." Arya crossed her arms over her chest. "So you'll fight with me?"

"Why would I do that?"

"The sooner I learn to beat Bronn, the sooner your debt to my mother is paid," Arya said.

Jaime took a calculated swallow of his wine. Then, wordlessly, he nodded pushed himself to his feet.


	20. Dresden Wine

**Dresden Wine - Andrew Ripp**

 _I don't wanna be your savior._

 _I can't be the one to hold you down._

 _But if you ever need a favor_

 _I'll do my best to be around._

 _Is anybody out there?_

 _Is anybody scared like me?_

 _I know it seems like I'm a stranger._

 _I know you feel I've let you down._

 _If I could build you something stronger_

 _would you let it fall to the ground?_

February 7, 300

Sansa swallowed against saliva that was pooling in her mouth. She supposed she was hungry, though she couldn't bring herself to eat. Food wasn't staying down these days-she was far too anxious about Arya, who grew better with the sword every day and would one day manage to best Bronn, even if it was just a fluke. Now she sat in Tyrion's study, his papers spread out in front of her. He had taken the afternoon off to have a drink with Jaime and Bronn. Sansa had told him that she would take a look at the legers in his leave and see if she could spot something he had missed. She doubted that she would, but they were supposed to have a partnership between them, and she felt useless sitting around day after day.

The tapestry was done. Sleep had been eluding her for a fortnight, and she spent her evenings sewing to the light of a dying candle until at last the tapestry had been finished. She had wrapped it, and it waited even now for Tyrion's name day, which would be in a week. Sansa threw herself into other tasks now.

Tyrion had done good work with the legers. He had sent ten of his father's men to help with the efforts at the wall-strong men who, he'd said, should be honored to help the king's war efforts. Under Tommen's new law they would be free to return from the wall when their service was over, though Tyrion had made it clear that he would consider any man who returned before the end of winter to be a coward and unworthy of guarding at Casterly Rock. As gambles went, it was a good one. Ravens arrived almost every day now warning of the dangers beyond the wall. The men in the north said an army of the undead prepared to march south when the winter snows hit. The idea of it made Sansa feel chill to the bone, though she kept a brave face when she would read the scrolls with Tyrion.

Ten men was a lot of men, but it wouldn't make the difference they needed. The maesters predicted that the coming winter would be the longest in living memory-maybe the longest ever. War had depleted the kingdoms resources, and no land was untouched. Casterly Rock had food to keep Lannisport through a short winter. It did not have the supplies to feed them all through a long, grueling one. Sansa wasn't sure how much food would be needed for that, in truth, but more than they'd saved by sending away ten small mouths.

She rubbed at her eyes, feeling the ever-familiar fatigue settle behind them. Ten men was not enough. They needed to be doing more. The army of the undead might kill them quickly, but if the watch managed to hold the undead off, starvation would kill them slowly. She wasn't sure which death she feared more.

-TSTSTSTS-

Jaime leaned forward in his seat, his golden hand resting on his thigh. "So I dropped down into the pit with her. And there's this damn bear coming at us, snarling and snapping his jaws, and I boost Brienne up out of the pit. Bolton's man had fire in his eyes."

Tyrion laughed, imagining it. He had no love for the Boltons. He doubted anyone _truly_ had love for the Boltons-even his father would know them to be the sort to betray their king the moment there was a better offer and would never really trust them. It was a bed they'd made for themselves.

"What'd he do then?" Bronn pushed. "I don't suppose he suddenly agreed with you about his pet?"

Jaime took a swig of ale. "His men were against him at that point. And I pointed out that Roose Bolton would care less about his pet's prize than about what my father might give him."

Tyrion snorted. "I can't believe you played the father card twice. You're lucky he didn't chop your other hand off."

Jaime frowned into his mug. "I don't think I cared very much."

Tyrion gave him a sharp look.

"They'd taken my sword hand." Jaime's eyes were distant. "I didn't want to live. Brienne... Brienne convinced me I should. I couldn't let them take her."

Tyrion let out a slow breath of air. "You love her."

Jaime didn't answer. He chugged the rest of his drink, slamming it onto the table in front of them.

"Cersei won't like it," Tyrion said.

Jaime's voice was cold. "Careful, brother."

"Who's ears do you think he's protecting?" Bronn rolled his eyes. "She _won't_ like it. We all know it."

Jaime gave Tyrion a look of disbelief.

Tyrion shrugged, looking at Bronn. "He doesn't mince words. It's why I hired him."

"You always have kept the oddest company." Jaime shook his head. He said to Bronn, "How're things going with the Stark girl?"

Bronn shrugged. "She's not bad for eleven."

"She's nearly twelve," Tyrion pointed out.

Bronn took a sip of ale. "She's too eager. It'll get her killed one day."

"If the rumors about the wall are true, she might die anyway," Jaime said. "Might as well eagerly take out a few wights on the way."

"And you still think you're upholding your vow to her mother?" Bronn asked.

Jaime dragged his good hand through his short-cropped hair. "I don't know what I'm doing any more."

Bronn said, "She doesn't stand a chance of getting through my defenses unless she can slow down and be more patient. When she's learned how to do that... Well, she could be great with a sword if she could do that."

Jaime sighed, pushing himself up from the table. "I'm going to head back before I get more drunk than I intend."

-TSTSTSTS-

Arya swung needle in a careful arc, practicing one of the moves Jaime had taught her the day before. He had been teaching her to maintain her center of gravity so she wouldn't be knocked asunder mid-swing. It was hard to do: Small as she was, Arya wanted to put her weight behind an attack.

"What're you even hitting at?" Podrick's voice came from behind her.

Arya spun, aiming needle carefully and stopping just before his throat. "I could hit at you if you want."

"I'll pass." Podrick nudged the sword aside. "If you don't sleep you'll never beat him."

"I won't beat him if I don't _practice_ ," Arya corrected, her expression mulish.

Podrick stepped forward. His eyes were soft. "I'll miss you when you go to the wall."

Arya licked her lower lip. "I-I'll miss you, too, Pod."

Podrick reached up and touched her cheek gently.

"I have to go." Arya stepped away from him, sheathing needle carefully. "I... I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Podrick watched her leave. He sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning the other way, thinking to head towards the stables for a bit. Jaime leaned against the wall of the wall, a smirk touching his eyes. Podrick felt his face heat.

"No need to be ashamed," Jaime assured him. "She's pretty, even in the breeches."

Podrick swallowed.

"It's a pity it's not you she's truly falling for," Jaime continued.

Podrick eyed him.

"She mentions that boy, Gendry, a lot," Jaime said. "Every story about her time on the road features him."

"He was her friend," Podrick muttered.

"He was Robert's bastard," Jaime said. "So that would make him tall. Dark haired. Brooding. I think she said he was a few years older than her. How old are you again?"

"Fourteen," Podrick muttered.

Jaime pushed himself away from the wall. He clapped Podrick on the shoulder, his expression kind. "You're a good lad, Podrick. And that little lady is going to break your heart."


	21. Everlong

**A/N: Some sweet Sansa/Tyrion this chapter and, at the request of one of my reviewers, a little Brienne as well (she won't be a major player in this story, but I will try not to neglect her). Loving the reviews so far. Please let me know what you think of this chapter!**

 **Everlong - Foo Fighters**

 _And I wonder_

 _when I sing along with you_

 _if everything could ever feel this real forever-_

 _if everything could ever be this good again._

 _The only thing I'll ever ask of you:_

 _You gotta promise not to stop when I say when_

February 13, 300

Tyrion woke up to the feel of something warm on his chest. He opened an eye and found that Sansa had nestled there, her ear against his bare skin, her hair fanning out. He smiled, reaching up to draw circles in her pale skin with the tips of his fingers. It was his name day. He was twenty-eight years old. He was happily married, and the acting lord of Casterly Rock-maybe forever, now that Jaime was determined to remain King's Guard. Never before had he felt like everything he'd dreamed of might come true. Now it had. And despite everything-despite their war-ravaged country and the tales from the north-Tyrion was happy.

He felt Sansa stir. She rolled over so that she was facing him and then smiled. "Happy name day."

"Thank you." Tyrion propped himself up a bit so that he could reach to press a kiss to her forehead. "So do I finally get to see what you've been working on for the past month?"

Sansa laughed. "They say patience is a virtue."

"I've been patient for a month!" Tyrion said. "Present, please."

Sansa kissed Tyrion's chest. "Tonight at your name day feast."

Tyrion gave a dramatic sigh, draping his arm over his forehead. "I can't wait that long. I'll wither away and die!"

"Oh, you will not." Sansa swatted at his arm. "Besides, I've a different present for you to enjoy today."

"You do?" Tyrion's eyes brightened.

"Well, you did give me two presents on my name day," Sansa said. "It seemed right to offer you the same."

"You don't have to make everything _even_ ," Tyrion said.

"Do you not want it, then?" Sansa sat up.

"No, no," Tyrion pushed himself up as well. He held his hands out. "Gimme."

Sansa chuckled at his childish antics. She wasn't sure if she'd ever seen him act so like a boy. She leaned forward until her mouth was just beside his ear, and she whispered, "I'm pregnant."

"You're..."

Sansa grinned, leaning away from him to gauge his reaction. Wonderment shone in Tyrion's eyes. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss against her lips. "You're sure, right?"

"Very," Sansa said. "It's why I've been off food the past few weeks. And tired."

"Wow." Tyrion stared at her, seemingly at a loss for words.

"You're happy, right?" Sansa asked.

"Happy?" Tyrion shook his head. "My lady, I am overjoyed. We're going to have a baby. I want to scream it from the battlements."

Sansa laughed. "That's a little dramatic... I thought you might want to announce it at dinner."

Tyrion nodded. "Yes, of course."

"And today, we can enjoy the news ourselves." Sansa leaned forward, cupping his cheek in her hand. She pressed her nose against his, staring fondly into his mismatched eyes.

"This is the best name day present you could have given me," Tyrion said. "I'm sorry to say it, for I know you've been working on the other present for a while, but it will not compare."

Sansa laughed and carded a hand through his golden locks. In the smallest of voices she whispered, "I love you, Tyrion Lannister."

He touched her chin. "I love _you_ , Sansa."

-TSTSTSTS-

"I feel ridiculous." Arya held her arms out to the side as she turned in a circle. Her nose was wrinkled in irritation. To Adelaide, the handmaiden who had been sent to assist her, she said, "They don't make Brienne dress up like this."

"Brienne is a knight." Adelaide pinned Arya's dress carefully.

"I'm not a knight." The words came from Arya's doorway.

Arya and Adelaide both looked up to see Brienne's hulking frame filling the door. It was one of the few times Arya had seen the woman without armor or breeches on. She wore colorful pants that flowed together so they almost looked like a shirt when she was still, though when she stepped into the room Arya saw they were breeches.

"I dress up for occasions as well," Brienne told Arya. "It's your brother-in-law's name day."

"I wouldn't mind wearing clothes like that," Arya said, pointing at Brienne's breeches.

"And if I were half so pretty as _you_ , you'd never get me out of a dress," Brienne said. "You're lucky enough to be both strong and attractive. There are very few women in this world with that particular set of blessings. If I were you, I would complain less about it."

Chastened, Arya looked down at her feet.

Brienne sat on Arya's bed, her long feet stretching out in front of her. "Have I ever told you why I entered Renly's service?"

Arya stared at her, and then she shook her head.

"When I was a little girl," Brienne said, "not much older than you are now, my father threw a ball. I'm his only living child so he wanted to make a good match for me. He invited dozens of young lords to Tarth. I didn't want to go but he dragged me to the ball room."

Arya smiled a little at the thought. It felt familiar, like something her family might do for her.

"And it was wonderful," Brienne whispered.

Arya blinked in surprise.

"None of the boys noticed how mulish and tall I was," Brienne said. "They shoved each other and threatened to duel when they thought it was their turn to dance. They whispered in my ear how they wanted to marry me and take me back to their castles. My father smiled at me and I smiled at him. I'd never been so happy."

Arya felt a chill go over her. Staring at the older woman, she felt suddenly very sad.

"And then I saw a few of the boys snickering," Brienne continued. "And then they all started to laugh-they couldn't keep the game going any longer."

Arya's fist clenched at the thought. Stupid, terrible boys.

"They were toying with me," Brienne said. "Brienne the Beauty, they called me. Great joke. And I realized I was the ugliest girl alive. A great, lumbering beast."

Arya stared at the woman's scarred face and crooked nose. She didn't know what to say.

"I tried to run away," Brienne said, "but Renly Baratheon took me in his arms. 'Don't let them see your tears,' he told me. 'They're nasty little shits, and nasty little shits aren't worth crying over.' He danced with me, and none of the other boys could say a word. Renly _was_ the king's brother, after all."

Arya bit down on her lower lip. She couldn't imagine something like that happening. Her chest hurt, and she wanted to say that she'd have pummeled any boys that did that to her, but she knew that wasn't the point. Pummeling them wouldn't make the hurt go away-not really.

Adelaide spoke up. "But wasn't he... I mean, I'd heard rumors that he..."

Brienne scowled. "Yes, girl, he liked men. I'm not an _idiot_."

Adelaide flinched away at her tone.

"He didn't love me," Brienne said. "He didn't want me. He danced with me because he was _kind_ and didn't want to see me hurt. He saved me from being a joke from that day until his last day. And I couldn't save him in return."

Arya twisted her hands.

"Nothing is more hateful than failing to protect the one you love," Brienne said. "You love your sister?"

Arya inclined her head.

"Wear the damn dress," Brienne said. "You'll hurt her enough when you go to the wall. No need to start now."

-TSTSTSTS-

The feast was held on the beach. Tables and chairs had been brought out there so that they could listen to the waves against the shore as they ate. Sansa knew that it was Tyrion's favorite spot in all of Casterly Rock. She sat beside him at the head table, her hand in his. For once the nausea had left her alone, and she found that she was able to enjoy the meal that had been prepared for them.

As they were drawing towards the end of their supper, Tyrion stood, cracking his knife on the edge of his goblet to get everyone's attention. The chatter died. Sansa stared out at all of the faces looking eagerly at him-Arya, with Podrick beside her; Jaime with Brienne of Tarth; Bronn and Carla; Adelaide... They had really built a home for themselves here. She felt her chest swelling with pride and affection for every one of them.

"My lady wife and I have an announcement to make." Tyrion reached for Sansa, and she stood beside him, her hand in his. Tyrion continued, "Sansa told me this morning that she is with child!"

There was silence in the moment following Tyrion's announcement, and then a hearty round of applause. Arya leapt from her seat, her small hands covering her mouth. Tyrion squeezed Sansa's hand gently.

Sansa said, "I'd like to present a gift to my lord on his name day-that our children may ever remember his bravery and strength!"

Taking the cue, Adelaide pulled the tapestry out, unraveled it, and held it up for Tyrion to see. It showed Tyrion at the head of an army of men, his sword raised.

Tears glistened in Tyrion's eyes. "You've made me look so tall..."

Sansa smiled. "At Blackwater, you were the tallest man on the battlefield."

It was a perfect moment.

And then they heard the snarling sound. Something leapt over the walls closing this part of the beach off from the smallfolk and landed at the edge of their party. It was a dire wolf, snarling and snapping its jaw, and hanging from its back was-

"Rickon!" Sansa and Arya leapt forward together.

The child hanging from the dire wolf looked at them. And then, to their surprise, Rickon bared his teeth at them and growled.

 **A/N: Dun dun duuuun!**

 **CLH had actually guessed the pregnancy a while ago. If anyone is curious, they conceived the same day they got word of Joffrey's death. Morbid? Maybe. ;)**


	22. Meant to Live

**A/N: Fun fact: This is the first chapter to start on the same day that the previous chapter ended on. Also, we are about halfway through the story at this point, so... enjoy that thought :)**

 **The reviews on this last chapter were so great. Thanks to everyone who posted a review (or has, in general, up to this point). They really bolster my confidence and make it fun for me to continue writing.**

 **And now... On with the story!**

 **Meat to Live - Switchfoot**

 _Fumbling his confidence_

 _and wondering why the world has passed him by,_

 _Hoping that he's bent for more_

 _than arguments and failed attempts to fly._

 _We were meant to live for so much more._

 _Have we lost ourselves?_

February 13, 300

Sansa stumbled backwards as Rickon snarled at her, snapping his jaws. At a safe distance from her young brother, she took a moment to observe him. He was filthy-even more than Arya had been when she first arrived-and his hair had grown out around his shoulders. As he clung to the back of his direwolf, he had a wild, frantic look in his eyes. Sansa twisted the sleeve of her dress between her fingers. She wasn't sure what the proper move was when your five-year-old brother showed up at your husband's name day acting more like a dog than a boy.

Tyrion stepped forward, holding a hand out to prevent Sansa from approaching. Sansa watched him, her gut knotting. Rickon didn't know him. How could he hope to calm Rickon?

"Hey," Tyrion's voice was soft and calming. "Hello. Did you come for supper? It was very nice of you to come on my name day."

Rickon cocked his head to the side.

"The problem," Tyrion said, "is that you're sort of putting on a show right now. And I am rather against using little boys as entertainment at parties. It seems like something my late nephew might have enjoyed, and I don't care for the comparison."

Shaggydog lay down on the sand, resting his head on his paws.

Rickon patted Shaggydog's mangy neck and then slid from his back. He seemed unsteady on his feet, and though he attempted two steps forward, he fell to his knees a moment later and crawled the rest of the way to Tyrion.

"Well done." Tyrion reached down and gripped Rickon's hand. He pulled the boy to his feet and walked with him towards a nearby table. "Let's get you something to eat, shall we? And then we'll have Clara draw you a bath and get you all cleaned up."

-TSTSTSTS-

Tyrion had seen the fear in the girls' eyes when Rickon growled at them. Sansa might not have noticed, worrying about herself, but Arya's hand had reached automatically for her sword. Tyrion was not about to have things get out of control, and so he had stepped in, holding a hand out to waylay the girls. Tyrion had once had a mad cousin, and he's learned that the key with madness was to be both calm and confident. It was the key with dogs as well. Tyrion wasn't sure which he was dealing with, in all honesty, but his confidence seemed to work, calming both the beast and the boy.

He watched with a critical eye as Rickon attempted to walk towards him and then fell forwards. It was clear that Rickon understood the concept of walking on two legs-he hadn't forgotten that. His muscles weren't strong enough. When the boy reached him, Tyrion reached down and pulled on his hand, helping him to his feet. Even with the support, he could feel Rickon struggling to remain upright, his small legs trembling beneath his body. What would even cause that? His brain was working overdrive as he led Rickon to the nearest table-no need to prolong the boy's embarrassment-and sat him down.

Tyrion sat beside him, serving him a plate as Sansa worked to get the party back into full swing. As Rickon leaned forward to dig in with his hands, Tyrion set a hand on the boy's shoulder, stilling him.

Rickon turned, snapping his teeth at Tyrion.

"You grew up in Winterfell." Tyrion pressed a fork into the boy's small hand. "I know you know how to use a fork."

Rickon barked.

Tyrion hadn't known children could bark. He felt eyes on him and the boy. But then, he'd had eyes on him his entire life. He ignored the stares, instead nodding at the fork in Rickon's hand. And after a moment, Rickon stabbed a piece of chicken with the fork and brought the chicken to his mouth.

-TSTSTSTS-

Sansa felt cool as she approached the band she'd hired for Tyrion's name day, telling them to play something light and airy to conclude the evening. She heard Arya run up behind her, but she didn't turn to look. She was sure Arya would have something smart to say about Rickon, but they were in public. For now, Sansa had to trust that Tyrion had things under control with Rickon. She could weep for her brother later. Right now, they had to be a house united.

"He's like a dog!" Arya said, her voice too loud.

"Stop." Sansa's voice was quiet.

"What do we do about that?" Arya asked. "How did he get here? Why didn't he recognize us?"

Sansa spun, her eyes sharp. "I don't _know_ , Arya. Right now we are at a party-"

"Who cares about the damned party?" Arya snapped. "That's our _brother_!"

"Yes!" Sansa replied. She dropped her voice so it was barely more than a whisper. "Our brother-the rightful Lord of Winterfell with Robb dead and Bran...missing. And we are in public. So hush. Tyrion has him handled for now. We will assess the situation later."

Arya swallowed, hard, and took a step back.

"Go talk to Pod," Sansa said. "Enjoy the evening. It will be over far too soon, and we will do our duty with Rickon."

-TSTSTSTS-

It was hard to get away from his own name day celebration. When he was sure Rickon had been fed her brought the boy to Clara. He spoke to Rickon the whole way, his voice quiet. "You need to be nice to Clara. She's going to take care of you. She'll give you a bath and get you settled in a nice bed for the night."

Rickon twisted, reaching towards Shaggydog.

"Your wolf is going to have to stay outside," Tyrion said, "at least for tonight-at least until we know we can trust him."

Rickon made a keening sound in the back of his throat.

"I'll make sure he's well looked after," Tyrion said. "With a nice meal like you had."

Clara was on the edge of the party, dancing with Bronn. She stepped away from him when Tyrion approached, seeming already to know that her services as a nanny were required this night.

"He needs a bath," Tyrion said. "You can give him one of my shirts to sleep in tonight. Put him in the same wing as Sansa and I, one floor down. And take Bronn with you. Bronn-he's five. I assume you can handle him if he gets out of control?"

Bronn laughed.

Tyrion turned, placing a hand gently on Rickon's shoulder. "Be good. Your sisters and I will be in to visit you once you've had your bath."

He transferred Rickon's hand to Bronn, nodding at Bronn to keep the boy upright.

-TSTSTSTS-

Bronn frowned at the charge he and Clara had been left with. The boy struggled to stand, and Bronn was sure it would be an impossibly long walk to the third floor of the East wing for a boy who could barely keep himself upright across the beach. He'd watched Tyrion with the boy. After his initial snarling and snapping, the child had calmed down considerably, and it seemed to Bronn that perhaps he had been putting on a show to begin with to keep people at a distance. He'd fought with people like that-they made a lot of noise to make up for the fact that they couldn't swing a sword to save their lives.

"You got him?" Clara asked, her dark eyes shining with concern.

Bronn nodded. To Rickon he said, "Don't worry, lad. You only have to stay upright until we get inside. Then I can carry you and no one will be any wiser."

Rickon turned, his eyes looking past Bronn's, but there was a small smile on his grubby face.

Bronn helped the boy walk up the beach to the castle. He hadn't noticed before how damned long a walk it was, but stooped half over and walking at the pace of a five-year-old, he noticed it. He wasn't sure who was happier when they finally reached the castle and he could lift the child into his arms. Rickon rested his cheek against Bronn's shoulder, tucking his hand up near his mouth.

"You're so sweet," Clara said to the boy. "We'll get you washed up in a jiffy, and then your sisters will come up to say goodnight to you before you go to bed. That'll be nice, right?"

Bronn frowned. He wasn't sure why she cooed at him like that. It wasn't like the boy was apt to talk back. He'd noticed Tyrion doing the same thing-chattering away the whole time the boy ate. How would Tyrion have liked it if Bronn had nattered at him constantly? He wouldn't. Clara wouldn't either.

Tyrion had directed them to a floor, but Clara chose the room. She selected one that faced towards the beach. It was clearly done as a guest room, the bedding an impersonal shade of blue and the furniture basic, sturdy wood.

"This is the room for the Lord of Winterfell?" Bronn asked dubiously.

Clara rolled her eyes. "I'm sure Lord Tyrion will have it decorated to the boy's tastes as soon as he is able to tell us what his tastes are-just as he did with Lady Arya's room. In the mean time, this one has been cleaned recently and has good lighting."

"All right." Bronn deposited the boy on the floor. He leaned back, his rear end against the boy's bed, and cocked his eyebrow at Clara. "Now what?"

"Never an ounce of patience with you." Clara shook her head at him.

Bronn watched as Clara hauled bucket after bucket of hot water to the boy's tub, filling it deftly. She dumped an amount of salts into the water, and the water turned a pretty shade of purple. Bronn wrinkled his nose. "He's not a girl."

"Oh, really? I wasn't aware." Clara shook her head at him. "The salts will make him smell good."

"You want to smell good, boy?" Bronn looked at the child.

Rickon rolled onto his back on the carpet. His hair spread fanned out around him.

"C'mon." Clara walked towards him. "Clothes off and into the tub with you."

Rickon growled at her, rolling onto his hands and knees and baring his teeth.

Clara rolled her eyes, unafraid. "Yes. A five year old who's not fond of a bath-very original. You're filthy. You can either take your clothes off yourself and step into the tub like a little lord, or Bronn can yank them off of you and drop you into the water like a stinky trout, but you're getting in the water."

The boy eyed her for a moment and then, to Bronn's shock, he sat back and fumbled with his tattered shirt, trying to get it over his head.

-TSTSTSTS-

Sansa was thrilled when the party ended and she could finally walk back towards the castle, her hand clasping Tyrion's. She felt exhausted, though whether it was from the pregnancy or from the length of the day was hard to tell. Maybe some combination of the two. Part of her wanted to simply crawl into bed and sleep the month away, but it wasn't an option. She had her brother to look after.

Rickon.

She'd thought he was dead. Seeing him snapping at her like a rabid dog, there was a part of her that wondered if she would have been better if he had been dead. She hated herself for thinking it. But the wild thing that had arrived on the back of Shaggydog hadn't been the brother she knew. He was a broken thing.

He was the rightful Lord of Winterfell. He may well be its downfall.

Arya walked behind them towards the castle. She hadn't said another word to Sansa all evening, and she didn't now. She walked with one hand on the hilt of her little sword and her chin in the air, looking more like a bodyguard than like Sansa's baby sister. The war had changed all of the Stark children, Sansa realized. She wasn't sure if any of them had come out the other side better.

Bronn stood outside of a door on the third floor of the wing Sansa and Tyrion shared, his body marking the room her brother was in. She smiled at him before pushing past him into Rickon's room. Any number of expectations crossed her mind in the moment before she opened the door, from Rickon growling in a corner to him fighting with Clara.

She didn't expect to see him sitting upright, calmly, in his bed, his blankets pulled to his waist. He was clean, his long hair falling around his shoulders in gentle waves. He looked just like Bran had at that age. Sansa dropped Tyrion's hand and walked closer to Rickon. She sat at the foot of his bed.

"You've grown up so much," Sansa said quietly. "You'll be a man grown soon."

Rickon stared at her through weary eyes.

Arya stepped forward. "Shaggydog's okay. Tyrion gave him steaks."

Sansa licked her lower lip. "How did you get here, Rickon? And where's Bran?"

Rickon shook his head. He looked away from them. His lips were pressed in a straight line.

Tyrion tugged lightly on Sansa's hand, a soft look in his eyes. To Rickon he said, "We're glad you're here. We'll come back in the morning after you've had a chance to sleep."

Sansa slid from the bed, letting Tyrion lead her towards the door. After a moment, Arya followed.


	23. Brave as a Noun

**A/N: Thanks for your patience, everyone! Posting is going to slow down-probably from here on out-but I'm NOT abandoning the fic. We're heading into the Fall semester at school and I am trying to write a thesis (drag!) and my hours just got doubled at work through the busy season (for the next month). Plus I'm applying for a grown-up job and will, gods willing, end up full time permanently at some point in the near future… That plus planning for a wedding and trying to buy a house… Well. This fic is getting written on my lunch breaks. Hopefully you can all bear with me as I love writing this fic and am loving all of the awesome support I've gotten so far 3**

 **And now, on with the chaos!**

 **Brave as a Noun - Andrew Jackson Jihad**

 _I'm afraid to leave the house._

 _I'm as timid as a mouse._

 _I'm afraid if I go out I'll outwear my welcome._

 _I'm not a courageous man._

 _I don't have any big lasting plans-_

 _too cowardly to take a stand. I want to keep my nose clean._

 _And it's sad to know that we are not alone,_

 _and it's sad to know there's no honest way out._

 _In this life we lead we could conquer everything_

 _if we could just get the brave to get out of bed in the morning._

February 23, 300

Tyrion had known that pregnancy would make his wife exhausted. He hadn't counted on how tired _he_ would feel. Sansa had barely left her bed in the past week, wracked with nausea and spells of dizziness, and between fetching for her, supervising Arya's sparring practices with Bronn, and trying to keep Casterly Rock's finances in check, he stumbled into bed most evenings well past when the candle dimmed.

Eleven AM found him at the small table in his chambers, pouring over an accounting ledger while Sansa napped. Adelaide could take care of her, he knew, and perhaps he _would_ get more work done in his office, but he hated to leave Sansa to her misery when he had, in essence, been the one to put her there.

The knock came on the bedroom door, haltingly, just as Tyrion was circling one of the castle workers who could perhaps be dispensed with-a butcher who often threatened to butcher children when their parents couldn't pay his fares. Tyrion suspected his services could be put to better use on the wall, where he could butcher as many wight children as he sadistic little heart desired. Tyrion was so caught in the thought that it took him a moment to realize there had been the knock. He glanced up, his eyes focusing on Sansa's sleeping form, and then he stood and padded across the room to the door. He opened it, and when he saw Clara standing on the other side, he stepped around the door, shutting it gently behind him.

Clara was more bold than her daughter, and did not skirt around the issue. "Rickon needs discipline."

Tyrion massaged the bridge of his nose. "I have been staring at an accounting ledger for hours, so perhaps I'm mixing things in my brain, but I seem to remember paying you a considerable sum to act as a nursemaid."

Clara crossed her arms over her chest. "He needs more than a nursemaid."

"He needs his mother and father," Tyrion said. "Unfortunately, they're both dead. It's perhaps why his closest friend is a wolf."

"You are lord to this manor and husband to his sister," Clara returned. "That boy needs an education-as a lad and as future Lord of Winterfell. He needs lessons in manners and comportment. He needs to learn to wield a sword and ride a horse. He needs to tame that wolf he loves so much."

"I'll hire him a tutor," Tyrion said.

"That won't be enough," Clara said.

"What would you suggest?" Tyrion scowled at her.

"I would _suggest_ that you let Adelaide do her job by Lady Sansa," Clara said. "She doesn't need you mothering her right now. She needs you to help with her brother!"

"You want me to teach him to use a sword?" Tyrion hissed. "I don't know if you're aware of this, but I'm not exactly master-at-arms!"

"I suppose that tapestry Lady Sansa made of Blackwater is just a pretty decoration?" Clara asked.

"I nearly died at Blackwater!"

"What will you do when it's your son in the nursery?" Clara pressed.

Tyrion deflated. He dragged a hand across his face. "I don't know."

"Well you best figure it out," Clara said quietly. "Lady Sansa's pregnancy is more certain every day, and in the mean time you have a little boy in this castle who is in desperate need of a father figure."

Tyrion watched Clara walk away. For the first time in a long time, he felt as small as he looked.

-TSTSTSTS-

Arya stumbled past Jaime, getting a swat on the back of her legs with his sword for her effort. She spun to face him, sweat and mud dripping down her brow. For a man with one arm, he was stunningly hard to fight against, and he seemed to enjoy whacking at her with the flat of his sword when she failed.

"My dwarf brother is faster than you." Jaime smiled cheerfully at her.

"He's smarter than you," Arya said, "but I don't see the need to harrass you about it."

"You fight like a girl," Jaime said.

Arya lunged, swinging Needle wildly. Jaime batted her away, barely moving from his spot.

Jaime said, "Children let these kinds of barbs get to them."

Arya lunged again; again he batted her away. She sighed, stumbling backwards and sheathing her sword. "I'm done."

Jaime smiled genially. He sheathed his sword as well. "Same time tomorrow?"

Arya could feel tears stinging the backs of her eyes, but she fought past them. "Yes. Same time tomorrow." She stomped past Jaime and pushed through the gate.

Brienne of Tarth stood just outside the practice yard, an amused look in her ugly eyes. She said, "You're never going to beat Jaime fighting like that. And if you can't beat Jaime, you'll never beat Bronn."

"Thanks for the pep talk," Arya groused. "You and your _boyfriend_ are the most uplifting people I've ever met."

Brienne ignored the barb at Jaime. She said, "You're small. The only benefit a small person has in a fight is the ability to tire the larger person out. How is it that Jaime keeps tiring you out?"

Arya shrugged, too tired to pretend at an answer.

"Girls have to work twice as hard as boys to be considered half as good," Brienne said.

"I practice with two different sword masters," Arya pointed out.

"Any _boy_ in your circumstances would do the same," Brienne replied. "You need to do more, or you will never be anything but a little girl in a pair of breeches."

"That's easy for you to say," Arya muttered. "You're as big as any man."

"I am," Brienne agreed. "And I _still_ work twice as hard as they do. You'd need to work four times as hard to be as good as me."

Arya's foot scuffed the ground. "I don't know _how_ to work any harder!"

"You need to build strength in your arms," Brienne said. "And in your legs. You need to be faster. And you need to stop letting them rile you up with their words."

Arya chewed on the insides of her cheeks.

"Lay on the ground," Brienne said.

Arya stared at her.

"On you stomach." Brienne waved her hand.

Frowning, Arya dropped to the ground on her stomach.

"Put your hands flat on the ground," Brienne instructed, "and push your body straight up."

Arya tucked her hands beneath her shoulders and pushed up, keeping her back straight. It was harder than she had anticipated.

"Lower halfway down, and then push yourself back up," Brienne said.

Arya did so, clenching her jaw. Her arms ached from the two fights she had done earlier that day, and her forearms shook as she pushed herself up.

"I could do that fifty times with _you_ standing on my back," Brienne said. "You're struggling to do it twice. No wonder they're beating you."

Arya glared at the mud beneath her hands.

"Work out with me twice a day," Brienne said. "Morning and night. I guarantee you'll beat the cripple within a month."

"I need to beat _Bronn_ ," Arya reminded her.

"You can't very well beat Bronn if you can't beat Jaime," Brienne said.

Arya pushed herself to her feet. She was already working out twice a day with the boys. She was already tired... and she knew Brienne was right. She inclined her head, saying nothing.

"Five AM," Brienne said. "I'll be at your rooms. Be ready."

-TSTSTSTS-

February 24, 300

The bedroom door opened at first light and Adelaide came into the room carrying tea and breakfast. Sansa sat up, the blankets falling away from her, and stared at her handmaiden. For the first time in days, Tyrion wasn't there to eat breakfast with her. He'd barely left their room since Sansa's morning sickness started getting bad.

"Is everything okay?" Sansa asked Adelaide.

Adelaide inclined her head. "Yes, milady."

"And Lord Tyrion's all right?" Sansa pressed.

"Yes, milday," Adelaide said. "He said to tell you that he had pressing work this morning, but he'll join you this afternoon for lunch."

Sansa smiled weakly. "Just as well. Maybe I'll have an appetite for lunch."

Adelaide lifted a small mug and carried it across the room. "Lord Tyrion has also hired a new Maester, who suggests raspberry leaf tea for your belly."

"He hired a new Maester?"

"Maester Toth," Adelaide confirmed. "He's one of the best in the country. Lord Tyrion sent him a raven just after his name day, but he wasn't sure the man would actually come. He arrived this morning."

Sansa gave a wane smile. "I have been sick lately if my handmaiden knows more about my lord's activities than I do."

Adelaide smiled uncertainly. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine." Sansa took the cup of tea from Adelaide and gave it a careful sip. "I'm glad he hasn't completely paused his life. I was afraid he had."

-TSTSTSTS-

Tyrion hesitated outside the boy's bedroom door. He wasn't sure why. He was lord of the house, and he had every right to go into his young guest's rooms. The truth was, Tyrion had seen very little of Rickon since the boy arrived nearly a fortnight prior. Even if Rickon had been a completely normal boy and hadn't needed any extra assistance, Clara would have been right in taking Tyrion to task for not attending the boy more.

There was nothing to be done for the past. Tyrion raised his hand, rapped sharply on the door twice, and pushed it open.

Rickon sat in the middle of his floor. He wore clothing that was freshly laundered and hair had been combed, but it nothing to keep the wild from his eyes. Papers were spread out on the floor around him, covered in charcoal scribbling. Clara sat in a rocking chair in a corner of the room, supervising him.

"Hello, Rickon." Tyrion sat on the floor across from the boy. "How are you doing today?"

Rickon didn't look up from his scribbling.

Tyrion said, "It is customary in a civil engagement to make eye contact with people when they're talking to you... even more customary to talk back, but I suppose we can work on one thing at a time."

Rickon gave no sign that he heard Tyrion. He continued to drag the charcoal aimlessly across the paper.

Tyrion sighed. He leaned back, putting his body weight on his hands, and let himself observe Rickon for a moment. When he'd arrived at Casterly Rock he'd been nearly wild. If the reports he'd gotten from Clara were any indication, things hadn't improved much. All he seemed to want was to be with his wolf, and when he was indoors he lacked motivation to learn or engage.

Tyrion licked his lower lip. He said, "Rickon. How would you like for Shaggydog to be able to come into the castle?"

Rickon looked up sharply at Tyrion's words.

"He can't until he's trained," Tyrion said. "I haven't the time to train him. He wouldn't trust me even if I did. He _would_ trust you."

Rickon stared at Tyrion.

"You'd have to be responsible to train him, though," Tyrion said. "I can't expect you to make Shaggydog obedient if you don't try at your own lessons."

The charcoal dropped away from Rickon's hand. He cocked his head to the side, staring at Tyrion.

Tyrion smiled. "How about this. We're going to have a new schedule. In the morning you'll work with Clara on getting yourself dressed and ready for the day, and I'll come work with you on your lessons as a young lord. If you're good for both Clara and I in the morning and work hard, I'll take you down to train with Shaggydog for half an hour before lunch."

A hint of a smile touched Rickon's lips.

"If you choose _not_ to work hard in the mornings," Tyrion said, "you'll spend that half hour here in your room thinking about how you'll be good in the afternoon."

Rickon's nose wrinkled slightly.

"Regardless," Tyrion pressed on, "in the afternoon, you'll work on manners with Clara for an hour, and then Bronn will take you and work on other life skills with you. If you're good in the afternoons, you'll get a half hour with Shaggydog before dinner."

Rickon nodded slowly.

"Dinner will be with me-and Lady Sansa when she's well-either in the great hall or in our chambers depending on the day," Tyrion said. "Afterwards you will take a bath and change into night clothes without any fuss. If you do, you can choose between an hour of free time or reading stories with your sister and I. Otherwise, you'll go straight to bed."

Rickon chewed his lower lip. He tugged at the strands on his shirt, mute as the day he arrived.

Tyrion stood up and held a hand out to Rickon. "On good faith, let's go see Shaggydog now, before lunch. We'll start your new routine this afternoon."

Rickon stared at Tyrion's hand for a long moment before pushing himself to his feet and shyly slipping his hand into Tyrion's.


End file.
